Vanity. Ares

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
rounds! The pain in me yearns it! Wants it.
Instead the clock continued to tick and Patrice
jogged away laughing. But just this night after
the officer has yelled: "Lights out!” I start to
think about my appeal, of which I still maintain
hope for. Of this maybe I am wrong and the pit
of my stomach has failed me and has me rolling
the stone up this hill. All that really remains is
the detritus of the freedom in my mind, perhaps
reduced by 30% or to some degree as that.
Though it's difficult to keep track of my
freedom, in the gentle nausea. London weather
still prevails and on this night as the rain falls, I
close my eyes and I allow myself to dream;
‘Perhaps I’ll somehow be acquitted and I’ll get
some money somehow, a lot of money and I
would buy an expensive car, maybe a Ferrari and
I’d have funny conversations with strangers as I
ate a steak Burrito, the avocado would drip but
miss the new shoes that a beautiful lady from
Spain had bought for me (an authentic woman).
For her to then tell me to finish eating so I could
get back into that Ferrari and drive, perhaps
through Monaco, or maybe Marseille and as we
drove we would see the Fete Du Panier
festivities; the concert, dancing, people going to
homes with no hatred, but happiness, smiling
faces, milk, chicken, honey, no nightmares about
dropping soap, but dreams of warm weather,
and then we would see Martinq and Gerard and
the Spanish girl I was with would tell me that
they probably were jealous. Jazz would play out
of the stereo; Boris Vian’s ‘Le Deserteur’, and my
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