justwrite 22 september

there are ten minutes to spare and where they can’t be strung together they’re hung out to dry for another try and why not it’s a hot shot who’s not got else to say when there’s only one day left in his life by which I mean today because there’s no way to sat some knife won’t trim the threads instead of weaving them onward it’s otherwise absurd to waste such space I can tell you it’s straight true that the man across the table who will sleep in the upper berth is valuing what’s worth of his life he’s soft-chattering with his wife about what their child’s doing and he’s fiddling with his ring too young to be nostalgic too young for much too tragic and I wish him just this way every day but usually muchmuch closer so there’s no need for a phone but still here he’s not alone with that low and gentle voice as he asks himself aloud what’s interesting so he can tell her and the train’s about to leave so he lets her know this too and says an early goodnight as the yellowbrown overhead light turns his expression sepia he takes another swig of coke and leans back to gaze out the window into the oncoming darkness