Avenue

In the future, there will be cigarettes and there will be caresses. And wine for meandering thoughts.

She shifts continuously in her seat. Her hair is orange in the sun, and dried out. Red,  yellow and blue of America in the 90s, or of a Jean Prouvé bench. She falls back into her seat on purpose... glancing at me...

For a short prose piece

The accumulating economic protests in New York have produced strange things. This evening, there was a gathering of about 700 people or more inside the fountain at Washington Square Park. Three men excused themselves as they went by me. One said, “You’re going in, too?” meaning into the fountain.

In and out of libraries, I keep picking up the same book. I continue from where I left off, and, this morning with a large coffee, slightly hung over, I sank into a sofa chair. I thought that Camus' book The Fall is just about dead leaves. Written in a delicate language, a constant stream of words leaves me at a perfectly familiar moment. Less than being about the short relationship between the two strangers who meet at a bar in Amsterdam, what I desire is everything that follows in order to fill it up, the emptiness that may suck out of the waking world's language, all of the things that are unsayable. This time, for some reason, it was: the dead leaves in the quay, and jewels the color of dead leaves, and I pictured a lonely character on the trottoir with a coat the color of camel and then the night.