Pebble towers pt1

The dishes in the sink are piled high like pebble towers on the beach, tottering with a Schroedinger quiver.

I survey my domain, my flat, my cell. Someone has been here ; things are not as they should be, or at least, not as I had left them.

The window : open wide to the world, saying “ah”. I peek, and see them far below. Workers. Scuttling like cuttlefish in the rain, cheap chameleon-grey suits adapting to their environment, unintentionally. By. Becoming. Wet.

Turn inside :

Two sheets of paper partly adhering to the table with cold coffee flap desperately in the breeze like a seagull, be-mudded and left by the tide.

Except we’re far from the shore, such basic boundaries. We are in the greatest city that humans have ever built, so they say. Millions of us pouring over each other like glasses of water over a face fresh from the desert.

I survey my domain, my flat, my cell. A gutted boat, an abandoned hulk. Mind the rudder as you step into the kitchen…it’ll bruise your knees as it tries to find purchase in this city.

This grey city … take out the colours ; less to worry about.

As I wade and kick my papers about the place I realise, like a bad chord, what they were after, and how little time I have left.

So I vacate, and a pigeon flap/slow-hand-claps me down the stairs. [The lift’s broken again]

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~ by Sixto on May 17, 2008.

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