Rebarbative

Off the thrumming train now, somewhere flat, like the Fens, but dried yellow rather than muddy green - just deserts.

I'm standing on a wooden platform held off the ground by oily rope hanging from a massive rusting cantilever that looks like it was once meant to swing, steam-driven, from one track to another. But the other track is wiry weed grown, and I can see bugs the size of my hand scuttling through the scratchy bush.

Menino is pissed off for some reason, hot eyed in the sun. My headache is gone, and the sinus thing is receding. I still have the gun (clean now, but still feeling like a dirt radius in my pocket). I'm feeling taller too, less hunched and sick. Maybe I can work out the thing. Maybe Bêbe's somewhere I can get to.

But really, really, I don't think that's happening now (I'm rehearsing conversations with her that can now never happen: because if they did, well, that would make me psychic wouldn't it? So I try to stop picturing the reunion, because I know each picture won't happen. Fuck.)

Where are you? What's happening with you now? I'm in this land as flat as piss on a plate, with sand and sun and a little nastiness hiding behind everything. And you're not here.