He returned to that moment, stood at the window as they were packing away the carnival. Tarpaulin over coloured lightbulbs, the jutting limbs of iron and springs. A possible frost over the grass, where he would sit with her a year later, watching the stars change. The gloomy church with the cyclopean steeple; the remembrance of a vital day.
Edward is Sadness
Edward is Fatalism
Edward is Doubtful
He was assured of change and it didn't affect him. Infact he relished the thought of being proven right again. If his pain was a construct - it was built sturdily. But for now there was her, a tin of tobacco and some green - twice smoked. Once Geraldine came up and sat with us. Then the unfolding afternoon; Gypsy music; Lee Dorsey; Dylan. Later I would tell someone how unbearable it was to hear it again - Because I fucked her I said to a stranger. As if fucking were that simple. It never is. My private share of cynicism; private belief. The little death - disassociate your brain from your dick. My hand has never let me down.
Watched a short film of Bukowski kicking his fiancee in a fit of rage. You cunt how dare you sit next to me and say those things. You sit here and you say we're gonna get married and you're gonna live with other people - how dare you; fuck you!
And I'm thinking to myself, if I carry on like this that's how I'm going to end up.