words and pictures

I long for the company of a gorgeous pal to roam around the city streets, to educate and adorn with my wisdom and ideas -- and absorb their thoughts in turn; a pal to chat with and drink with and listen to records together; but most of all to read to one another sentences of a story, stanzas of a poem, parts of a play.  Someone to dash around galleries with and be wonderfully candid with.

Currently, I am toiling.  Finding myself knee deep in an idea, wanting to push ahead.

I want to smoke more cigarettes and take more opiates.

 

I ate an apple this evening and felt glum.

I've been up since 4am.

*

Do I dare? Do I dare to descend the stair?

I shall hear their voices though, passing each to each: how his arms and legs are looking so thin!

Give him that peach! "Hear me!".

*

*

A man in a café spoke to me -- he was Scottish and old with comfortable walking shoes on.

He complimented my macintosh - "You don't see many people with macs anymore".  I told him that I'd chosen to wear it because the weather seemed like it would be difficult to predict; after all, I was awake at 4am and dressed by 5am.  I take good care to dress myself: yearning for clean lines and solid colours.  The old man was on his own, drinking filtered coffee and eating a scone with some butter and jam.  He looked content and pleased.  Now it is later and this moment has of course passed me by - but how wonderful it would have been to listen to him speak for a long period.  He had a diary open and kept stopping every so often to write a little note in careful handwriting, black ink.  Who will read those words of his?  Who will read my words that sit on closed pages of my many hidden diaries?

*

Perhaps it would be for the best if I just went off to Peru.

(Image 1 http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5204/5201625805_15307b2c97.jpg)

(Image 2 http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5070/5697465835_d9df4e4c84_b.jpg)