The positioning was one of illusion and haven. And he hollowed his mind and inflated it with air, so his thoughts could circle blackly the sun and belt out words that would keep him in the stars. The ocean guzzled a ship in harbour, the nightshade was stuffed with soft rock songs, and the mood was momentous in making tough choices. In the next morning, he appeared in his hotel’s restaurant. To even the best days there are lacklustre meals, unless he could summon his legs to move forward and out of carpeted floors, six meters away to road and race toward Nirvana with a Polaroid laugh.
But he couldn’t do it. Nothing would be the same. Ends would be loose, and there would be no resolution, anywhere at this time. Life had entangled him in a celestial noose, stitched from the ugly fabric of responsibility. He shot, he froze. And he reached for butter, then he strangled a loaf pan of stale bread with it, and he raced his eyes outside the window, inhaled a lungful cigarette smoke, and revelled in the semblance his life had driven to Hollywood legends.
And so off he goes, sprawling his knees on the wooden chair, waiting for morning to be over, so he can wait for night over lunch. “If life is so iconic, then why am I so unimportant?” Because you’re miserable. “And if day is so bright, then why are my eyes stifled by darkness” Because today is just like every other day, and you’re always pathetic. “I’ll survive this if I only stop” Now? “Yes. Today is just like every other day, and I’m here, and I’m miserable. So, while I’m waiting for another time, I’ll live this day, then leave and live other days”