Heatfleshtrash

Yesterday afternoon. I spent with a friend of mine. Listening to the story of his life. In a park near his house. That is a park near my first house, except my access was from the other side. And that was ten years ago.
We had dinner in a restaurant that I was last at in 2000; an unhappy, insecure and fraught evening with James.
Then a night out together in-the-rain-on-the-town. We went to a bar/club in Illovo. With a cab. Thank God. It rained alcohol inside me and I let down my beer-soaked vodka-tinted hair.
I saw Steffen and forced him, in a way important to me, to acknowledge me; not that he has any obligation to ever do so.
I walked-and-floated-and-danced-and-drank-and-pissed-and flirted, all in nice clothes.
Then home in the smelly cab, and an episode of Heatfleshtrash that lasted until three pm today.

[i write this later, it doesn't flow, as in words; welcome to disjointed:>>]
Lying on a fine-haired arm. Talking sore and pain and intimacy. Then a. Wonderfully. Greasy. Wimpy mega breakfast in a suburb from hell, walking distance. That I quite liked. Because at/on edge means you're alive enough to notice: goose flesh-prickled skin. And wide eyes; those are not the effects experienced by dead/the.