Images
Strange day hung over from a strange weekend.
The humidity is stifling and wraps around your skin like a bandage for your wounded soul. The threat of a storm is in the air but you breathe it in nonetheless - not given much choice - in short hurried breaths, thick with the smell of car fumes, people and cast-off dust of civilisation.
A pleasant lunch at a favourite venue, where the regular waiters know our faces, and even some of us by our names. I don't think they know mine. I'd be the girl who tags along sometimes.
Conversation where topics melded from one into the other; I remember images, not words, but Mark Twain scored a special mention:
"When I was a boy of fourteen, my father was so ignorant I could hardly stand to have the old man around. But when I got to be twenty-one, I was astonished at how much the old man had learned in seven years."
I probably should have declined the second drink. I was functional, but fatigue which had already taken hold earlier got an extra push of encouragement. And sleep was a such long way away ...
Back out in the open air, my vision was slightly blurred at the edges. The grass that we walked on looked as if it couldn't be squashed any flatter, and yet just glancing down, I could distinguish every single blade, their delicate pattern of shadows burned deep green into my memory.
[Comment?]
05 November 2001, Monday, 10:42 PM
Alter ego of dandruff
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