Thursday, October 26, 2017

Berlin 7

After his graveyard shift, the first thing he does is drink a salty dog. The next thing he does is drink another. He honors the simple whims that compel him and eats breakfast for dinner, living in absurdity as a well-tuned machine.

He found himself a nearly useless job in the public sector where he monitors water flows and does not think about Heraclitus. He still reads newspaper comics and understands the medium is dying.

"But isn't everything?" He thinks while they tear down another old building. He wonders about the bar, but he figures he'll go first. Death is the most personable and variable of abstractions, you know.

He reads The Stranger because he read it when he moved here all those years ago. He thinks about the City's sense of equity and social justice; its commitment to astronomical property values; its homeless population; its pandering to corporate welfare. He drinks six or seven salty dogs, goes home and passes out.


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