The last girl I liked, several years ago, is pregnant now. I've started to crave having some intimacy in my life. My possessions are really the only thing keeping me company lately. Novels. Art books. CDs, DVDs, and assorted appliances to play them on. Beer bottles. These are my friends on a lonely night like this. I need to take my dog for a walk.
Dog hair and strange noises keep me company under street lights that point out every crack, blade of grass, dead insect, dog poo, spilt drink, every pebble. It starts raining. I find a park and sit watching the stars under a flimsy steel aegis, making names and stories for each, but knowing only the space between them.
My dog cleans himself. I envy his simple mind. It must be good, concerned only with fleas and mating. I think long and hard about the world around me. My dog doesn't notice the buffalo wander past, or the Mayan hunting it, focused on only one thing in life.
A pair of dryads stroll past, singing alluringly of summer and flowers. I call out to them but they don't hear me. They are too beautiful to hear my weak strangled voice. But then, one comes back, gives me a kiss on the cheek, and I'm like fire in the rain.
The rain ceases. I return home, play an old favourite album on my iPod that I haven't listened to in years, and let the music lull me into a dream of the world engulfed in flame to a hauntingly beautiful tune.
I wake bolt upright and need write this down. It's 5.41am. I'm not sleepy. I keep writing, and light greets a page of wonderful prose scribbled out in haste. I lean back in my chair and watch the sun come up, and my world suddenly isn’t so bad.
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