Thursday, August 22


THIS SENTENCE WILL not change my life.
But I must write it, I feel, because otherwise I might go a little insane. That is how I feel right now. Tomorrow morning, say, at nine-seventeen, I should probably feel a little different; that sentence would seem to be even more worthless; a trifle, a waste of time; a very brief moment in my otherwise miserable evening. Still, I spent time tapping out those thirty-two letters. So surely I am doomed to write a little bit more about them.
Maybe I will not.
I choose my music carefully because when the day—the twenty-first of August, two-thousand-and-thirteen—is running out, one must be a fraction more careful about their time. I was listening to Glass—I went for a cigarette before Violin Concerto – Mvt. 2—could begin, and now Mahler is all about me; a lieder set to the most affecting of poems. Mahler saves the night. That sentence will not change my life. It will have little impact upon my evening.
Someone at work condemned me for using the word ‘upon’ in an e-mail. I’ve always found ‘upon’ to be a wonderful word, as if it would be most at home in an old fairy-tale. I deleted the word, and I continued.
Tomorrow night I will meet Saint. She’ll see me on the south bank at a pub I have been to many times, the very pub where she gets a twenty-percent discount. I wonder how she’ll look since I last saw her. I will no doubt be a little stunned because she was the last I pierced without a condom and she is so magnificently terrifying to me. She stands opposite me as if we are strangers without any history. The barman will have to whisper many words in my ear before I can calm down. It is what I shall do with my Thursday night.
There you go: for no reason at all, I retyped the first sentence, those seven words, hypnotised by the minutiae of their form, the curves and lines they have inherited over centuries of use so that, tonight, I could write: ‘This sentence will not change my life’. What if I write a lie?
Turn your hand over under the night-sky and see that the moon, right now, is at an angle to the earth and its quilt of twilight is so stubbornly shifting its galactic dust across us as if we weren’t cool enough in the first place. Altocumulus, so familiar to my eyes these summer days, is filtering out the moon’s light on their bellies. The moon is bright. I have been in my dark room, rolling cigarettes, so that now I find the moon to be very bright, as if I’m being interrogated by the government. I imagine that I am a lone wolf howling at the moon. What I am saying, in my howl, is—‘Leave me alone, I’m trying to get some rest.’
Because I have to get up in the morning I suppose I shall stop now. Above all this, I have run out of wine. Mascagni is playing; he’ll see me out. I have to get up in the morning and run through my day again as though today wasn’t quite right, but tomorrow evening I shall be with Saint and I won’t be writing any sentences at all.

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