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On Solitude

I remember my blood congealing underneath my skin as my phone went off, a dumb buzz in my clammy hands.  I looked up at the rotund window-washer swinging gloriously back and forth atop the domed gravel bank, an engorged horsefly drunk on a dumpy grey horse’s arse. 

Late, you know how it is, I’m sorry and blah…

No worries, I said, because there’s a guy washing windows up high and I want to see him fall off or at least lose his bucket.

You wore chinos because your grandmother said that’s what gentlemen wore.  I asked you how she was and you said she was long dead.  We talked about doggybag alfoil swans and then you said you needed a fellow idiot to deconstruct Kant.  We laughed heartily and became fast friends.   

I hear you occasionally when boughs break in the valley and wonder what you read these days.

Egg cartons lined your walls when you had vague dreams of being successful, a beaten up Korg stunning against the mural of a blurry Macleay Street outside, decades of vomit and faded glitter streaking bins and parking spots that cost hundreds of thousands.  I hate the city because the hum becomes a din becomes something bigger that eats you alive. 

I swung myself back in from your balcony ledge, a lame horsefly drowsy on nicotine.  Ash blew back into your lounge and I covered it with De Montaigne as you played back a mis-dialled answering machine message from three weeks prior where an Indian woman crooned for eight minutes straight in a dialect that we both knew then was going to outlive us.

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  1. July 6, 2010 at 8:23 pm

    Writing. It’s good. And good. Hi again.

  2. BourbonBird
    July 9, 2010 at 1:39 am

    Hey, you.

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