I think I will go out now. Sleet as cold and dirty as a threadbare street sock. So let's. Clean clean clean, quite correct - hair on top of the head as thinning as armpit hair. Thoughts as smelly as armpit hair. Left alone with them now for some time but who is ever really alone? Time past and time present recorded in time future. See, Friend of the Pound is already here. A bank clerk in life don't you know. Do you? Always one for a good shot of travel into the ugly realms. Me too. Out and down to the shore. What is this stone? No stone, glass. Chiselled green; hold it up to the light where there is none but grey and see that world past. Not here now, there: London, pub heat unbearable - sweating profusely at the best of times but this was something else. Who can endure? Yet that's not today - a day like this one - any other - grey. Formidable man and character. Indomitable to the last they'd said. And then he'd died. Such is the way, the Tao of all our tiny lives.
Moley! Who would believe to quest and find him here on this stone shore of all. Pet rock had a place in my khakis wherever we roamed. Warmed by my flesh, would take him out and mother laughed and cried or cried - perhaps it reminded her of poppa? Yes, look at that nose; grey as today and how long does it take for decay to corrupt the nose; send it sailing down to the ear. One last set of tears of the grave from that leaky eye fluid. No salt to it though - still not drinkable. Just like the sea. Maybe I will walk out there, contemplation was always too stronger word for this world; more like a little cajole, push or a coax. A tickle rather than that vast unquenchable nothingness of the Buddha. So let's. Foam like the eyes of the sea looking up at the spectre of the sky. Should do everything with conviction and know fear but not afraid. Oh but it is the death this icyness, not for me. Not in my cup. So let's leave. Let's. Now these loafers are more like spent boats than shoe. Hastiness makes the man. Back indoors to life and the chat of mine!
