Swimming to the Mud Island

Waiting, waiting. Postponing the inevitable. I can't write shit. There are the covers, of course. I said it, I'm a chanteuse. A songbird in a cage of my own device, lovelorn fool under your empty balcony. Heat some oil, pour it.

How grey can a landscape get? The sun has the good sense of going down. Observe yourself, your reactions. What I've been doing all of my life. You need coolin'. I'm going to swim.

Baby, I ain't foolin'. I've done it before. The first one is for fun, the second?

The dusk. The tugboat the only colour - too bright - in this lovely place. The noise it makes, that angry little insistence, an ode to the poor white trash. Forgotten, not gone. Lurking in the shadows. Ready to jump your back. The wave. Now what the fuck is that?

A barge, alright. As deep as sorrow. Foti, cautious as ever, picking up the boombox, so it won't get wet. Good thinking. Good lad. See you another time, Mud Island.

The plane must have landed.

Another pic