I was trying to get home after a meeting where I’d felt kind of central and important at the same time as being fearful and vague, like I was missing every third word and still trying to ride thew meaning and document it at the same time like a surfer with one eye on the curl, smiling into a waterproof sports camera held at arms length, and the other eye on the shore. A power failure at Birmingham meant the train was being held in a queue. Every twenty minutes a signal light would turn green and we got another four hundred yards up the track for another twenty minute wait. Whoopee. I was so tired and hungry I went walking up the carriage looking for a fight. I was a lot meaner and about a hundred and fifty pounds heavier since I quit drinking and no-one would look me in the eye. Fucking cowards. That cunt Kinaski never had any trouble finding a fight. He was so dumb, falling flat on his fat ass drunk most often people would just push that dick over with one finger. The guy could write a good poem though. I’ll give him that. Shame he’s fucking dead. One of these days I’ll get home.

Maybe.