I place my money on nothing anymore.
I have reached the stage where I
don’t expect or anticipate
even the unexpected, I just
sit waiting to drift across the
soundwaves of others
talking in this room.
They fill it until it is one
dense block of chopping
blabber, the note of people
telling extraordinary stories in
very ordinary, polite ways
being a drone of Middle C.
I just pray that one day
these tones will push me into the
trance that delivers the
key moment – that the
conversations about last night’s
television, this year’s lust
figure, and expletive-spittled
observations about idle Chairmen of
various Boards, these things will
ascend me to higher
Western knowledge, then I
shall be fit to walk these streets.
I believe in nothing
anymore, and I still drift
through the city unnoticed
living on sheer chance.
It is actually nothing to
write home about,
but I frequently do.
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