Sweet, self-induced coma, brought on by dope that earns its’ keep.
Brain sloshing around the skull, collecting shells from the sodden shore, I absent-mindedly staggered back to the security of the elephant footpath, as grey as death, the sky a pregnant sponge.
The other bodies trundle past, not seeing me. But I see them; their spirits.
The completely vulgar couple, walking entwined.
Guffawing donkey lady with sprays of orange hair leaping away from the cranium.
Dusty, cobwebby old man, shuffling and murmuring.
Gaunt, starving junkie, zigzagging and blathering.
Middle-aged beetroot, pickled with alcohol.
Rotten bacon bikie, eyes and jaw locked, strutting unconvincingly.
Witch wannabe, furiously flapping purple sleeves, slitty conniving eyes.
Bulldozing business lady, sure-footed and pretentiously crisp.
Too tired to notice more, so I turned to the library, diving for security.
The librarian, crusty with knowledge, peered suspiciously at me, but I didn’t
care, and flopped down on the chair.
Putty faces everywhere, so I submerse myself into useless information.
St Paul eradicating women from the church – “Let your women keep silence
in the churches, for it is not permitted unto them to speak.” Stupid prick.
Lost Aztec history, self-help manuals, psychology magazines, spy novels.
Boredom.
Back home to nothingness.
Shapeshifting 