The numinous grey cloud choked the sky out of existence and lay a film of speckled ash upon the face of never never land. At least, that seemed the idea behind waking up with a hangover and reaching for the marijuana cigarette at what deigned to look like a morning but could have really been the endless grey winter that threatened but never actually made good on its promise to give birth to spring - or, alternately, to find Spring's sweet rosette pussy and plough it like a fallow field ripe with possibilities for, among other things, heat and the incomparable scent of daffodils that can, it must be said, charm even the coldest heart.
Never in my life had I ever abused myself with such violence.
It was like all my former assignations had returned to tease from my body the hoped for satisfaction, the elusive bodily fluids that had heretofore escaped their palette. And I was their willing vessel, their sex god. Mine were only to unleash the unrequited frustration of some many years upon their waiting feminine flesh. If only they were here to enjoy it.
Crisp as morning air upon the lungs. Clear as the break of day from a still night in a remote countryside, the soft neighing of horses, the bark of a dog (one to another) and then the cry of the rooster sounding its own prayer from its own minaret, calling man to that impulse with which all life unfolds - sex.
Terrible as it may sound, I have never had a moment's thought for people who sleep under bridges or, for that matter, people who live lives of tireless devotion to wealth and society. Even movies fail to garner that much consideration for either, as though either were of a constellation of tastes, needs and hopes that utterly escaped even my imagination, one that had suffice to sate every thirst for travel and adventure that most everyone else had ever had, and so much so that it was rare to find anyone who could quite understand (or even wished to) my uncanny penchant for remaining quite unmoved by the advent of international flight, the passport or the perennial fetid charm of the hostel.
Last but not least was the tandem team of memories present and past competing for my affection. Memories were all dead, if you really thought about. They were ghosts that walked the earth by the ineffable light of one's own unrequited longings, things that might have been called romantic by some, I suppose, but which really constituted an entire faculty of perception and experience that bled like every fountain of the ingress of time into and beyond every bound of senses five, invigorating, sobering, inspiring, sorrowful, drawing out vision and sadness in equal measure and these of the predawn hour of some genesis only yet in its infancy, waiting like a fair maiden to be ravaged by the rooster and the crow, the hungry jowls of sleepless mouths at night opening and closing upon the faint premonition or portent of the very substance of life, a vanilla scented skin that parted for every deep thrust of malice, kindness and, ultimately, preternatural communion that one could summon (and must) though a payer from the Stygian volcanic lair of Satan himself.