So and so sat discussing life, contemplating existence in a totally hippy way. Outside people were drinking heavily - pub crawls are bad for my liver and my social life. Especially in this city. From just across the hall comes the familiar chaotic sounds of war. How peculiar that the simulated murder of Arabs or Nazis or Russians or Vietnamese is so addictive to teenage boys.
In a short while a whistle blows from down the hall, a familiar but unnameable tune. The sound of cooking at such a strange hour: the joys of insomniac flat mates. You can never be lonely. Until they fuck off on a weekend adventure. Bastards.
No comments:
Post a Comment