The detritus of a night’s drinking and
eating, talk, bad jokes and good laughs, are spilt across the black tablecloth.
The various musics in the background and the guests have long since vanished,
taking with them all their good philosophies, and all their better
explanations. The curtains, blood red
velvet, are drawn. Three wine glasses stand together in a little family group,
dregs in two, for we, Peter, Alba and Jone Johnson, were the last to let them
rest. Each one is clouded with fingerprints just to prove to me that it all
really turned out so marvellously well. This is the prelude to a thought.
Both of you retired to your bed I do not
know how many eons ago, but I am too overtired to sleep so instead I am gazing
into nowhere and toying with all those clever retorts that occurred to me too
late to be used. I am toying with memories of when there was more future than
past to be lived in my life, and I know there are thoughts I can escape from,
that I can re-educate, and thoughts that will return with exquisite
stubbornness. Those of this particular moment, I realise, are simply the same
as ever they were, but pondered, of course, with more pompous vocabulary, a
reflection, evidently, of the company we keep.
A beam of light from some other universe
I do not wish to investigate shines at a slight angle through one of the claret
stained glasses and throws a dash of sepia tinted infinity across the dark
tablecloth, a galaxy for a thought. I am mesmerised, sweet terrorist girls,
mesmerised, but a little sad and at a loss for words.
