Here in this disparate abyss, it can be difficult for an old man to get enough breath in him without feeling like a fish flapping around on the damp Atlantic seashore, discombobulated and ever so out of place. There are days the walls take on a menacing quality and the deeper I go the more they seem to be closing in on me, and all I can do is to rub my thumb and index finger together furiously (like a savant on cocaine only most days I believe I am quite normal) and run through all the palindromic numbers from one to infinity until my chest gives way and I can go back to sucking on stale air. If _____ were here, she’d ease the base of her palm into mine, hold my feelings steady, and count along with me. But she isn’t, and this is why I do what I have to do.
25/10/11
