My ice is clinking. I've made a carob sweetened iced latte. Below the hot balcony large yellow diggers are loudly crumbling up the road. My inner walls are also crumbling.
Sitting on a park bench I see a cat scrawny as a bone, and a spiky cactus. I haven't had sex in over a year. Unhealthy for a number of -allys; biologically, physically, emotionally, mentally, spiritually.
The diggers are still at it. The other day in a bar ordering burgers, a waiter with challenging dull brown eyes asked: What do you want on it? Ketchup. The heavy world notices it is floating in an ocean of weightlessness.
The walls turn into waves crashing, crying; I'm so broken, woe is me, as they break into the unbroken sea. I played the Brokeback theme to the mountains on the weekend sipping a sharp lemony gin and tonic.
We all know how insane each other's minds are because we're all listening from the same place; we silence remain unbroken. The waves are bowing distantly to the smarmy mountains. The moon appeared behind them bright as a child's eyes.
Back to the diabolic symphony conducted by the municipality of Nicosia, I appreciate though that re-asphalting is necessary. I mentally undress you, and mentally kiss your legs. The day’s hotness makes one want to lie naked and rest.
Self-absorbed, unnecessarily literary, juvenile, are perhaps comments one would make about this journal. What do you want? I want it easy or not at all. An attitude that leads to being hot, horny, spineless, blurry, broke.
No coffee, day one, no sex, day 379, no fulfilment, day 12,578, no wonder I'm still searching. Today I might visit the Cyprus Museum, perhaps today is the day I find what I'm searching for. What do you want? An iced latte.
