...a deathly serenade...

deemed as wholly unworthy... though she soon
fixes a bright orange bra over her rather corpulent
breasts and exits the bedroom...
...the seamless desire to orchestrate a way
to be seemed to hover around in the ether as the
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
AA
day moved along, mostly by way of the weed that
sat on the living room counter, the memories of
the odd malaise of happenings off sprung from a
walk to Kingsland Road... where, after purchasing
alcohol from the only off licence open, a lady I
would come to know as Leila stood, apparently
waiting for a friend, she said in a rather haphazard
manner. Eyes darting side to side, hand
scratching head, and slightly mumbling as if we
had known eachother all along... the sounds of
cars floating by in the late night mass, random
shouts from the abyss, cats...I asked if she needed
anything, knowing what I could offer, I asked if
she were troubled, perfectly informed that I could
barely offer anything much... for I had very little
in the way of anything, just a flat, paintings that,
of course had yet to take off, and this body...skin,
bones, fluids...
...it was very soon that Leila soon came
around to the idea that this phantom person, that
I would subsequently wonder whether existed at
all, would not turn up...and that forty minutes had
passed where we had stood talking about a
Transexual we both knew, Olivia, a mysterious
letter that she had received from someone in
Buenos Aires, etiquette at Turkish baths, the
death of the ego...which seemed rather strange, to
be in deep conversation at this time of night, I
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