Day Seven

Another raw summer’s day in this harrowing journey. People sweltering like convicts in a blaze that torments heads. Disheartenment and utter despair assailing me, the image of eternity I was born with being spoiled by morbid reflections. What have I become? Embezzled lover and exiguous father… But I am elsewhere now – where memory ends with conversations with the skies. Styes are blistered by constant tears and my bones need a walk. I eventually muster courage to take a walk among slouched drunkards on sidewalks, faces glued to arses and other museum relics of a boding terrain. It was actually the heat that woke me up - a Pretorian commonality I suppose.
I had intended to sit alone in the vacant flat after everyone had gone to work and perhaps finish a script. But I rather opted to list places to visit during my planned excursion, and motley list emerged indeed, from those vaults of memories distant with my past stay in this city.
Option 1
The Gallery
The gallery is situated too close to a brothel; and I wonder if prostitutes do appreciate art. Movements of commoners mingle with mine towards an eminent failure of explorations. Museums are too far apart; with kilometer long blocks to cross from one to another.
Option 2
Second Hand Bookshops – if they haven’t shutdown to make way for salons and internet cafes.

A bout of dementia settles as I realize that I have not written prosody in months… I think, and the twitch is unbearable. Trundle of cars up sloppy alleys, and the intermittent silences charge me with guilty thoughts. Taverns are filled with young lost men, women thronging salons for nail-biting efforts at beautification – whimsical debauchery swimming in their eyes. Pimps lounge along park benches and drug peddlers lie comatose under weird shadows at noon. The reek of marijuana filtered through heated drafts, and it is when I decide the walk was a bad idea and I had to escape the scotching sun. A visit around the block sees me in a company of old friends, further fueling militant debates with some eclectic music blurring though tattered audio speakers. We sit the day to blots on floors, no furnishings necessary here. For now, I hope.

Minor Observation

I discovered that here, a packet of cigarettes is called LAPTOP…
It is rather boring day in the story that could get senile. I sleep in the afternoon, only to be roused late at night by my hosts returning.