Tuesday, 22 March 2005

midnight in a drafty world

Struck down with illness, a retreat into my own. Rose at seven to catch a train across two cities, two cities that never really woke.

Department Of Moving Things had got the dates wrong, they didn't find the drugs clinging to my body's walls, left with medical security intact, no violations, the lubed finger locked safely away in the filing cabinet.

Thankful for the reprieve, I wandered in and out of cheap clothing stores and then to the sandwich shop and from there to home, where a ghost sat watching daytime television.

I joined the ghost and began an undertaking of daunting proportions, a beige papery brick with a tear of sandpaper for a bookmark.

One thousand pages, each crammed with hundred of tiny icons. The reading reads, and the fourth page says

In the majority of cases, people, even evil-doers, are much more naive and artless than we generally assume. As, indeed, we are ourselves.

Waking, feverishly.

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