Saturday, 13 August 2011
Aman sits in bed pondering whether or not he would sound better in the past tense. His head, or rather my head was aching. The riots of the past week had played no small part in sending him into a state of mental paroxysms and withering his gonads. Whilst brushing his teeth he had planned to compose a narrative about the unsayable that somehow said everything was alright. But because it was late he had already forgotten that which he would have ordinarily remembered in the morning. The streets outside were now calm but he could not shake off a sense of guilt for not having taken his firm bristled broom to the clean up operation that had taken place in the daytime. And thus slowly running out of steam or indeed the will to engage he he he he he he he he he he what? He he he he remembered that the man had planned to write about how he was happy to embrace insanity as a political action, whilst silently hoping that this would be what would slowly propel him back to a saner state of love and wonderment like an astronaut spacewalking back to his module.