SUNDAY IS A DAY OF DEATH

A slow, almost indolent day today-- like so many before it. Hot sun outside, my neighbour splitting stones with a pick, sudden rain showers, Jehovah's Witnesses knocking on doors and me answering bleary, wild-haired, reeking of beer, saying "Sorry, I'm really busy", them seeing me through the window moments later watching tv and giving mouth-to-mouth to a can of Carlsberg. Lost in a haze of lazy melancholy, I was, watching the breezes fluttering the ivy that covers most of my garden fence, listening to the voices of people passing, regretting my loneliness, sad for the transitory nature of the scenes that we live in--the happy moment of a young man and woman together, her heels scuffing the pavement, his hand in her jeans pocket,
both thrillingly alive not seeing the grave loom. So many universes I've got to carry around in my head under this greying hair, so much that is gone, but I waste days lying around waiting--for what? Are these drunken days lying in the light as inert as a compost bag going to be a sufficient exchange for my youth, when Death comes calling, as soon he will have to? But where's there to go? What do? Why go anywhere sight-seeing when you can see through the buildings? How can you be happy when there's no you to be anything? "no one in the chair/ no one in the rain/ sure as shit" as Kerouac says.