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What are you waiting for?
Why is there opera in the next room?
Must be Italian. Or Spanish.
They're the same language when I'm this near sleep.
Can't remember the last time I touched a woman.
That's a lie.
It's all I can think about.
I just can't remember the date.
I can remember the cold, clean, pale light in that dirty room.
The smell of a thick rubber inflatable bed
two distinct swills of spit sweat and pheremones.
I can remember that warm soft flesh between my lips, pulsing with life and arousal under my fingertips.
That's how addicts work.
They count how many they have left.
And my cylinders are still spinning.
My engine is still running.
But its picking up some english.
Some three and a half step to a two.
Its falling off of me.
The suave.
The smirk.
The sense...
I'd hate to realise that this is just a memory too.
Another fragment depleted. Just an etch on the wall to count.
I wonder if I have in fact withered, balded, and decayed in some government subsidized hellhole for the doddering non-compliants.
And I'm just fantisizing about the goodtimes as my mind takes longer and more vivid trips.
The light on my palm goes red soon.
How many do I have left?
