there was a small terrace, beyond the french windows in the drawing room. Beyond the terrace, the little dead lane, paved with black stones. An old lane, in an old city. When one of the ladies who lived in the apartment block came home from work, he could always tell, by the particular tone of the swift beat of their heals in the lane outside. Click-Clack Click-Clack Click-Clack Slam click Slam. He knew just when they had walked in from the main road, into the stone paved lane, entered through the two outside gates and walked into the building. On the floor, near the window, his long body sprawled, his whole being poured out in a puddle of brown skin and blue checked cotton. The sound painted him a picture of the world outside, so alien now.
It drew pictures of a spinning corporate world. Drab grey and white covers with unbelievable prices. A certain something, in the angle of the head, in the rythm of the steps, in the stride of the legs. the incredible and the incredulous. the pretenders and the buyers. like a self staged drama to entertain the self. or was it. in hindsight, the path of the running looked hypnotically circular ... but then, everything always changed with perspective. His mind fumbled for the reference: it was something to do with Einstein, and Relativity ... but he forgot easily these days; and he remembered hard. Or he remembered, but it was not what he wanted, when he wanted. It came and went at will; and it came hard. Like movies, splashed on sporadically. On a deserted, rent free, naked screen. One big free for all party for sadistic ghosts. Sometimes, at night his brain went mad with thoughts. They wrestled each other, he and his demons, amongst the tangled sweat moist sheets, under the sarcastic eye of the slow ceiling fan, humming down at them with laughter at their futility. His thoughts crashed around inside his closed mind, spinning wildly in every direction, lashing out against each opening ... looking for some answer, some light, and at the end, a tired brain, succour hungry, just wants to black out, go to sleep ... a long rest, at the feets of the gods, gods which he had set out to build himself, for that, he thought, was basic human need ... Feet, to rest weary heads at. When all else fails, comfort, joy, pity, support ... when their is nothing left in the grains of all or any of the myriad web of inter relations we human have woven, between ourselves, we need feet, to silently rest at. So he had set out to build himself a god. Scornfully selective, he had picked, bits and pieces of the best he had seen in mankind and collected them, like a child picking flowers, in folded hands ... and now he had tripped and fallen ... and all the god-pieces had scattered, at his feet.