Two coffees, two eggs, four pieces of toast, some greens with balsamic vinegar and five small glasses of water

Transformer is the perfect album for walking when the air is thicker than honey and the population is shiny with sweat. Lou Reed, the gaps in your synapses come in handy. I was walking towards coffee, coffee with Robert, his fabulous partner and the unknown quantity of his friend Gecko. There were orders, Robert interjecting with conducting hands saying " I brought you two together to talk about rock. Discuss."

Everyone has hard edges but when the people are not intertwined into your context the edges have points. It was not a barbed occasion in fact overall it was quite pleasant but all the edges were unexpected and me without my navigation equipment.

I've been thinking that I might not have a hard edge. It is true that there is someone in my office that I have not warmed to but I repent and repent after unpleasant thought. The people with coffee said Sufjan was wet and fey and I tried to think about this but my heartbeat is still fluttering with his wings.

One day, a long day, I remember it well. It was the day I sat on the floor and filed off my points revealing holes all over my armour; this is where the joy pours in.

Roaming the hallway this afternoon with long fractious strides I examined the texture of the carpet with the soles of my feet. Eventually I settled into the last half hour of a television movie but unknown to me my phone was ringing in the front room. I discovered the missed call like a doctor arriving to find his wife two minutes dead with no hope of resuscitation. The phone said the call was from no number. No way to know who on this planet thought of me this evening at half past six. There was no message. I am still carrying the phone tucked into the top of my underpants, just in case.

Comments

Shelley said…
Is wet and fey bad? Sufjan is wonderful. He can be anything he pleases. Or they pleases. Or we pleases.
DS said…
Is this about the toasts?
Martin Kingsley said…
I agree with Nails. Sufjan was and is a fucking sparking, over-driven defibrillator jammed up against the grey, corpse-like chest of American folk rock. Him, Conor Oberst, and John Vanderslice. In my New World Order, people who declare Sufjan Stevens to be wet and fey will be the first ones up against the wall.
Anonymous said…
I recommend caramelised balsamic - not very good for you, but yummy.