Henry sick as a dog, he just couldn’t seem to shake the gookalygok, wondering what kind of a virus last a month? He felt doomed, disheveled, feeble, covered in green slim.
He looked like shit as well, like an old Bulldog with scattered strands of long blond rooster hair growing out of the top of his head and a mouth full of busted up tar coloured teeth, a contender in the ugly dog contest.
Hard to get much inspiration here, old age physically beating the shit out of Henry, a hero slumped in front of a bowl of noodle soup, despicable, invisible to most.
Dope and booze made him sick, he couldn’t take it anymore, thinking of it made him nauseous. Nausea didn’t stop the old fool though, he didn’t know any better, ready to hit the opium parlour for relief on a whim.
As a young man he spent hours looking at himself in mirrors, never missing a chance to catch a reflection in a window sill, now avoiding mirrors like washed-up vampire.
Wondering what there was to write about? Henry’s latest story, “ High in the Pines” took him out of his pathetic self some, romantic stuff from the past. Henry a pus and blood filled pimple, Quasimodo dreaming of Esmeralda past… inner self fading fast.
In front of a computer typing away madly in a coffee shop, watching the young things sucking up university rot, beautiful and fit, the world was about them, not him, and he knew it. Henry, poisons festering and morphing inside him, breathing goo on the innocents in mute fantasy, spreading Ebola and plague as he breathed, the destroyer of young dreams and hope.
Stopping by the Chinaman’s on the way home, he scored cocaine and Oxy-Codiene which he pulverised and snorted for a balanced high.
A few minutes into it and Henry was rocking again, "Tumbling Dice" was playing on the coloured radio. All things were a matter of perception he thought, Descartes was right, it doesn’t exist unless you perceive it. “Good and bad days, feelings,” were a colouring book of perception.
Descartes’ colouring book, that's the ticket Henry thought.