Yesterday, when Miss J. B. Cravan’s wristwatch beeped at 7 am on the desk where she left it the night before, it woke the somnambulist inhabiting the space, who was sitting, waiting and watching, delayed and arrested. He was dreaming about his “blog” and planning to compose a dismayed and disgruntled piece called Tired Of Waiting For You, using the title of the famous Kinks song. He anticipated problems in the writing because, to quote another song he liked (by Kevin Ayers), “there’s not a lot to say, when you’re feeling this way”. Unlike the Kinks song, which is terrific, but basically trivial in its subject matter, the Ayers song says it all in terms of terminal frustration, e.g., “when you’re up, they’ll love you to death/when you’re down, they’ll steal your last breath”. For the somnambulist, irresolution and problems still seemed to comprise the unchanging daily menu.
Quite suddenly, things improved. Can’t say why exactly, but they did.
Perhaps it was something she said. Or something he read. Or the memory of the ancient game carved into the winged figure’s foot by the Assyrian soldiers. Or the 121st anniversary of the opening of the Eiffel Tower.
Or just possibly, the thought of finally acquiring his own Inspiratron.
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