Wearing brand new black slippers on my feet, I stood there. I recalled watching something. There was a black dog standing beside me in the shade. Inches away from the rain. Like me. It kept looking up at me occasionally.
He reminded me of Seeing-Eye Bitch. That deranged bitch that jumped at the refrigerator and took a fondness for the stranger with the large spectacles and the blue eyes and the oiled hair. He collected things. He put half a boiled potato in a sample packet, because sometimes he was afraid that he'd forget. They called him Jonfen. His name was Jonathan.
And the sights and sounds of the streets were absent, replaced by the sound of the rain and the occasional car, honking as it went past. I went to buy cigarettes. And Pepsi. The shopkeeper was kind, giving me a nice box for the two cigarettes I had bought. I stood in this new shade now, bracing myself to, once again, walk into the rain. I looked down at my brand new black slippers. They had a star on either side, with arrows pointing forward. Forward I went. Center me. In the center of the center. A car went past drenching a passer-by, who yelled at the windows which were rolled up. Fogged up. No one cared. You got wet, passer-by? It was funny, that's all. Fuck you. Who cares. The car was coming. If you were there, beware.
Thoughts spilled out. Singing in the rain. I tried a jig. I couldn't dance. Wasn't that the point though? Dancing in the rain. I thought about people to share this with. Like that trip that boy had taken with that Irish fellow from his class. They wore black ties. On that outrageously hot day. They had taken the train to Coney Island, staring at things out the glass door with that one speck of dust on it. And they talked about things and looked at things. And, suddenly, neither of them were bothered by the heat anymore, which was killing them a moment earlier. All about being comfortable. It was a memory, sketchy. But, after thinking about it a few times, it was clear enough.
It's more a question of feeling than it is a question of fun. Sunday morning is everyday, for all I care, and I'm not scared. And all you people are vampires, and all your stories are stale. Come as you are, as you were, as I want you to be. Lets turn forever, you and me. And no, I don't have a gun.
*Looks down at brand new black slippers. Stares at toes.* *Wriggles toes.* *Strikes a matchstick. Lights a cigarette.* I stand in the center. The center of the center. *Who needs action when you got words* --