When a writer and a whore meet there is often a general tendency of an effervescing fortitude in the atmosphere. The streets that day were lit with the general lights that would go out in dawn and he sat by the footpath, legs crouched, watching over the bypass as the traffic sped by leaving a blur of light- in his mind and everywhere within him.
He consumed all of this.
He desired such blurs; such indelible marks that would always allow him make words pubescent children frolicked over. Everyone was writing about love those days, and how their heart desired, and how it felt and how it missed, and about the coterie of pretty lovers who could save the world; and yet the world of the other went on- spiraling down the steady road of decadence. Humans always try denying their animal nature, but animal nature hardly denies them.
‘Why do you write political novels?’
‘A writer must work on something he doesn’t understand.’
The midnight traffic thinned like his receding hairline. He stood up and walked towards his apartment. Scheherazade had missed the last bus.
No stories would be told tonight.
He consumed all of this.
He desired such blurs; such indelible marks that would always allow him make words pubescent children frolicked over. Everyone was writing about love those days, and how their heart desired, and how it felt and how it missed, and about the coterie of pretty lovers who could save the world; and yet the world of the other went on- spiraling down the steady road of decadence. Humans always try denying their animal nature, but animal nature hardly denies them.
‘Why do you write political novels?’
‘A writer must work on something he doesn’t understand.’
The midnight traffic thinned like his receding hairline. He stood up and walked towards his apartment. Scheherazade had missed the last bus.
No stories would be told tonight.
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