Cici meets me in the dark outside
the theatre. In the dark she almost looks like a whore (well, she's not). We go
out for a thousand drinks.
Morning in photographers apartment.
Cici's still asleep, she's making horrifying noises, scares me, and - for sure
- there is another bottle of Pernod, I'll drink it playing the stereo, Gerry &
the Pacemakers' "Away from You", better than the A-side, fuckin' autumn in Stockholm,
it's the beginning of october, noone's happy anymore, not yet...but some will
be.
Next morning I wake up, another place, another girl; I see my knife nailed to
the table; fuckin'
hangover, must have been drinking at least one bottle of Pernod and 5 bottles
of wine, probably much more than that;, for sure, I'm not alive, not the least.
Strange eyes looks at me, strange wonderful smile; I decide to go on with whatever
we did last night.
(Happy
summer rain...12 years after...happy...happy...happy...)
Death comes closer...
Love - hate, fuckin' dualism;
I'm talking 'bout computers, mostly I hate them, but they are kinda addictive,
and sometimes even useful, but I can't love a computer like I can love an electric
guitar or a motorcycle or a gothic cathedral or an empty street at the heights
of Montmartre (where I suddenly realised that I was back home after a long journey;
confused, finally calm and finally happy; me so Kerouac).
Death comes closer. So,
how to survive? Quit smoking? No sex? Find a work which contains an ontological
intrinsic worth? Avoid the streets?