Me, traveling.

Part 1.

When you do nothing, your days are defined by the pursuit of drink and food.

At night, the need for drink hangs over you like the moon. You cannot stay in your hotel or hostel.

The city lives for you. Its death is not part of your story.

For whatever your desire, the city presents to you multifold paths of fulfillment, and tempts you with new ones.

You know the city is a home for desire.

Part 2.

The cruelty in your gut and head presents to you the morning.

Now, in the noon, you feed.

You waste time.

You acknowledge first that you waste time, then you think of the traps of productive time, and then with and only with that opposite in mind, you enjoy yourself.

You accept that you’re a terrific killer of time.

You wonder whether or not you can tell people of your ability- if they’ll find it weird.

While drinking your coffee, or smoking, you want someone to sit in your table. The loneliness is hard. You hope that whoever sits will have plans later tonight. Plans of which you can join.

If, after your coffee or smoke, no one has sat in your table, you will walk and observe the city, which in daytime confronts you with the truth that people work to live in the city.

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sonny

Literature, art, science, travel. Writing fiction, non-fiction, poetry. Always wrestling with language.

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