Hotel Whiskey Alpha

Then, one day before the flight; before the deep, blue sea.

He inserted himself into a rain droplet and watched his corpse, now huge and lumbering, nodding with a phone in its hand. As the warping, watery glob closed in on the earth he nuzzled down in the saline and curled up.

He was asleep when the droplet hit the ground, scattering his limbs about their feet.

The pillow was half soaked. He turned over and it was the same room, sometime in his life.

And then he went to work . And then he went to bed. And then he sang a lullaby and dropped the fuck down dead.

As he drove he impersonated accents; Scottish, no; Mississippi, yes…Delta – The rings of the big boy, the Saturn, crooning out in the rubbery black of space. The lullaby; yeah, that one…the quivering fingers…the perfect menu, a screeching chair on linoleum, the biggest library in the Home Counties. You might say that the eyelids were heavy. So, what did he do, what did he do? This is what he did: he made it into a game. He laughed at his lethargy; wondered whether he might be asleep already, or whether he’d descended into layers of unconsciousness; a dream within a dream within a dream and so on and amen and such like, like, you know?

He ate tomatoes from the vine, protected by a lioness, who was protected by the Gods.

They told him; once, down the pub.


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