52/283-284: Grey

[rejectomorph]

Waking in darkness, not knowing the hour and thus uncertain of the day, I lay listening for the sound of the mini-metropolis, but found it wrapped in the nocturnal silence of its autumnal fog. Had my mind gone that way, I might have convinced myself then and there that the world no longer existed, or had always been imaginary. Instead, I went looking for some image of certainty from the past, but found I'm no longer convinced that the past is real either. An intense need to take a leak was the only thing that made me believe that I myself was real. So the dream of the world must have been all mine. I berated myself for the poor job I'd done of it as I took a flawless piss. Where was that competence when I'd really needed it?




Sunday Verse

Not Waving But Drowning

by Stevie Smith


Nobody heard him, the dead man,
But still he lay moaning:
I was much further out than you thought
And not waving but drowning.

Poor chap, he always loved larking
And now he's dead
It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way,
They said.

Oh, no no no, it was too cold always
(Still the dead one lay moaning)
I was much too far out all my life
And not waving but drowning.