You're a pack of fucking parasites, he declared, relentlessly angry, with nowhere to vent, smug faced bureaucrats behind counters, the greatest of outrages hidden behind walls of sweet reason. Pointy hats. Nowhere to go. Irritable, restless and discontent; the voices; the hidden quests; the great losses. Smug, they hid their bastardry behind a display of good manners. He truly hated the lot of them.
The counter-terrorism exercises on the harbour have ended now; something like 4,000 people have died in an earthquake in Indonesia, Dili has erupted into chaos; mountaineer Lincoln Hall has been brought back down Mount Everest from a near death experience. Chaos consumed his heart. It just wasn't right, all the longing, for chaos and introversion and intoxicated dreams.
They weren't there for him; faces from such a long time ago. His own hair had gone grey. Trevor had his 50th down the road at the art gallery. The cold sank in early; doors closing tightly, heaters on. Of all the beauty that he saw, none of it was his. Life was finite. Solutions rare. He related to almost no one. The gut longing that ruled him; and longing for what he did not know; those moments of lucidity in the night; the georgeous beauty in floating spots of time; these were things that no one would understand. Everyone wanted to record their history. And in the end, history rolled right over the top of them. Say goodbye little one; ant flick in a fraction of time; gone. I could have loved you, I could have loved you all; we could have been together forever. It was not to be.
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