One-Thousand-and-One American Nights

Night #6.

See most of life is lived in anticipation, but what sacred bliss to know that the best is behind you? No more worrying will I miss it; will I recognize it when it comes; will it even come at all? What safety in retrospect, what undeniable grief and clearness of path! I am a made man, in a way. And so I am looking for ways to get killed, yet not relishing the thought at all. I am oblivious to action, in bed with passivity, extremely complacent in the most desperate way. I have evangelized the truth of mourning, and I am my biggest convert.

I tip my hat towards the rain and keep moseying down Main St. The double-breasted coat and fedora are a bit Noir for me, but I'm involved with the moment and so I play along. I kick off the wall with my cowboy heels, and land in the semi-puddle which is the entire street sidewalk. The streetlights glare like schoolmarms, and I pay no attention, hat brim averting their gaze.

In revision I find more comfort than I ever did in action. Her face becomes more beautiful with every passing day, her thighs slimmer, her waist more perfect. I remember her smile like a flashbacks in the movies, and the pavement where she lay is now a bed of roses; I planned to lay her there all the time. She is being transferred more and more into my Beauty, and I the Beast.

(Leave along the implications that has for me.) I am building a castle, a big one, and thinking of buying a clock and a candelabra. I am insisting on a large ball room; I don't really know why.