A life of almost unbearable intensity

I walk and I walk and I walk. Then I stop to piss and have coffee. To connect to WiFi and to write down my thoughts.

Then I walk and I walk and I walk. Then I stop to piss and have coffee or maybe a beer. To eat. To connect to WiFi and to write down my thoughts.

About it getting dark so early that it confounds me but turns my mind cozy. And thoughts about Kundera's Tomas and Tereza in his Prague. 

And thoughts about Kafka who lived, and who lived here for so short, but fully occupied this city before dying in his lover Dora's care on June 3, 1924 after a life of almost unbearable intensity.

I visit the city's only English bookstore, The Globe, where I stalk around quietly on the creaking floorboards beneath vaulted ceilings in a builidng that's about 120 years old and seems to have aconstant  stream of young American students through it.

I walk and I walk and I walk seeing countless faces of incredible and unsual beauty in this melting pot at Europe's heart. Features and faces and noses and skins and hair that I've never known nor seen before. Incredible and unusual features and also, sporadically, the colour blue of eyes that I can only describe as Siberian-Blue because I've only ever seen that striking colour in huskies by the same name.

I try not to have thoughts of home. Because back there I'll be soon enough.

And there's many thoughts about intimacy and sex, and about the sexualness of my travel and interaction with others in places of strangeness to me, where for me the ultimate and most intimate connection with a place is via a combination of mind and body with a person from that place-space.

And then because I'm human it's time to piss again. And the entire cycle begins all over, and shall contunue until I die. No problem with that: Piss. Shit. Cum. Blood. Ash. Dust. 

After that I'm in the WiFi.