I walk to the park to look for something to write. on the grass in the sun I read the book I ordered online. a director I admire said it inspired him to make a movie I can’t stop thinking about. the text reeks of dark humor and a bleak cynicism for the human project and our place between the supermarkets and slaughterhouses we create. I catch somebody waving my way in my periphery. the sun obscures their face and it takes their voice to make them more than a stranger in the park. it’s somebody I met last weekend. I apologise for not realising and blame the sun. they ask what I’m reading and I tell them. we exchange pleasantries and I wish them luck for the gig I was meant to go to tonight. I return to the reading and wish I could sit in the mind of the young man who writes the thoughts I wish I had the words for. what would he have thought of my mind? would his meaning to me mean anything to him? I want to take him to the movies and hold his hand but he died in a car long before I was born.
I walk through bookstores just to be somewhere else. I read spines until it’s dinner time.
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