He’s nauseous. The sun came up way before he expected and greeted him bouncing from left to right and from right to left of his eyes. No steady pace could pull him through unscathed. The street was too short to bear and to long to cross. He scratched under his pants. A paper came out, stuck to his hand. There was a number written, one of those you find by night and neglect by day. He flushed it into the sharp wind.
Next to the grocery shop there’s a bookshop. They mostly sell poetry but there are so few enchanted with rhymes or delayed senses that the shop becomes smaller and smaller each day. Anyway, it has the best stool to sit on Saturday mornings, after you kicked butts on dance-floors. He pulls out another cigarette but they are finished. Grabs the wallet and it’s empty. Looks around and there’s only his inner storm, resigned as a pawn. He feels confidant with his proud solitude although the girl is fresh as peaches and stands inside the counter smiling at her silly friend. Just need one stool among sensitive pages to readjust the colours of his pale soul.
He smokes away some Whitman whilst thinking of fresh butter croissants and tea. He likes pinky fingers.