I am killing time before my twelve noon appointment at the Travelodge with a man off the internet. (Tiffany – bedsit above mine – showed me the site). He’s going to tie me up.
I think it’s about life and death and their inconsequentiality. Dead man’s head, dead sheep, body parts in cupboards, skulls, piles of pills with which to kill oneself. ‘Life’ being the vibrantly-hued butterflies in concentric circles: life in cycles. New-agey. Though they’re blatantly dead too. It’s all blank and emotionless. But isn’t that the Zeitgeist? I flip my poetry notebook closed and drop it back in my bag.
Internet Man has a little daughter who is the light of his day, which keeps him in his loveless, sexless marriage, which is kind, so I trust him.
To be safe I text Tiff – if they find me in canal in bin-liner tell em wz Simon Black of Northallerton. She texts me – crazy lady enjoy.
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