Leicester

They always put Sprite right next to the 7Up, as though a taunt to those who drink either or neither. And I always pray that they remain apart, and they don’t, and I really needed a pick-me-up that day.

I was going through my options all knelt down, briefcase held close, ruminating on whether I’d make it and at the edge of my eye I swore I saw the employee smiling at me, this ridiculous chimera smile and I knew it, I knew that I had to take both bottles and slam them into the counter for my reply. Even if it does nothing! Nothing! Sometimes it does something…

Though of course I’d do nothing. Sopping wet from a five minute prior and figured in my own rebellion I’d reach for water and make him laugh louder, only to wonder why I’m buying Eden’s fruits. A flash of September 9th, perhaps 2016, the strip of Napeague, the nausea which forced me to switch away from a Montauk pilgrimage I make every United States christening and to which I will emphatically remind everyone as the true birth of this bemused country, this delightful and wretched place of nonsense and faux-freedom for the willing fettered.

Because it is only when you give a Name does it come to life. Of a spritely little workshop, such minute creatures between the metaphysic fabric. Stitching each sandy speck and the same in my eyes I kept wiping while the storm encased everything other than the lone bus stop benching. It was here I laughed the same as Job, from a verse I added at the end, in my own apocrypha, because again, I emphasize, the only thing you must do to win His favor is write with him, never at him, always yourself, never yourself, don’t exist! You can rip the pages apart too… I stop myself from believing anything.

Wringing my cap and indeed it certainly was a 2016 because there I noted the numbers all condense the same as the Devil’s reversed. Perhaps I wasn’t supposed to celebrate this day, and yet sometimes I beseech God wants me to be a darling Morning Star — after all, how else could either exist? It’s only in the foils so he animates, where good loves its evil, needs it, and heroes become the sickly torturers. Thus I readily mimic a wretched fall and perhaps, someday, perhaps someday I’ll grow some ashen wings, or not, whatever the case. I don’t think it’s consequential.

I bought water and smiled aggressively at the same clerk where the exit mirror kept glinting with my bloodshot pulp brightened and it was here, indeed, that I decided to call this day Leicester.