It is Father’s Day. London is burning and dragging with it from shop to shop boxes containing 14-inch chrome fans, and I am feeling that floating separation of mind and body again. Is it the re-spacing or the existence outside of the expected; is it the avoidance of the species or the presence of it; the walking or the starving or the nonchalant way I taste the heaviness that rides up endlessly, scraping the wrong way up my throat? The caffeine makes my stomach turn as if eager to reiterate the act and I think of the morning I promised myself would be the last (I understand you. You win).

Looking for a silhouette in the wooden backs of mirrors, I read the first fifty-six pages of Kafka, Kundera, Adams, Thoreau, leaving the remains under tables at bus station Burger Kings or at the feet of trees confined to city parks. I take solace in the feeling of my feet spreading into imagined footprints—those caves cemented into the floors of bourgeoisie cafés and dirty underground stations. Waking is caffeine highs, hellos, and goodbyes; words in languages I can’t understand and words in accents I wish I couldn’t. Waking is miles under the sun that wash away in sweaty streams on still white mornings when I rise alone or on stuffy mornings when I wish I had. Sometimes I turn towards the window nearest me and there are signs—double-decker red busses, suspended orange or grounded green trash bins, spider webs of trolley wires and kavárny—and I make a note to remember what they mean.

Sleeping is the reminder that somewhere, wherever, I am alive.


London, United Kingdom

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