It wasnt that Dave didn't care; he cared immensely. The feeling was that he deserved to live in some semblance of comfort.
The thought was interrupted by a not so unnoticeable knock on the fron-door. Suspecting of an ambush of someone most amorous Dave slid off the bed like a slice of jammed toast that had staled to the characteristics of a brick. Nevertheless, in a pair of worn jeans, the door crept open. Two persons were moving to the next house. joggin gear, sweating - it's Sunday. What does this mean? Think quickly you stoned son-of-a-bitch. You can't let them in. You have a pound of weed sitting just inside the door. Why didn't the bag go under the floorboards? The methadone clinic - lost junkies. The guy seems overly familiar - yet the pregnant lady has something far more disturbing about her. The pregnancy stands out like a feminist banner - screaming; proclaiming; shouting - the pain is nothing - all men are nothing. You stupid stoner. All they want is water. You can't let them in. A glass of water - fuck they keep asking. Shutup; let me think.
Close the door.
Find a bottle. There was a two-litre bottle in the fridge. That's perfect - cool refreshing clear water - keep it. H2O cold to go from the fridge into their hands and off my mind.
There's nothing in the fridge.
How long has it been? What have i been eating? There is a decaying smell protruding from the rear of the fridge. The odour conjures images of yellow and lime (green) stain on the wall out-of-sight. But nothing can further my plight for water.
Water.
Right - people outside.
What about a glass. The dirty dishes pile in one corner. The ones i supposedly cleaned - how long ago - reflect the opposite corner.
This is my disease.
Where the fuck is a bit of plastic when you want one?
Labels: art
¶ 4:09 pm
