Songs of the not-so innocent

It's the end of the month. The 31st day of what feels like forever. The salary is in the bank. But there's no fuel in the tank. Fatigue makes the eyes smoulder. Tiredness coats the mind. Makes it fuzzy. How the bones are holding up is anyone's guess. What's keeping an aching heart going is a mystery. The needs are few. The wants are spilling over. People wonder if he's thirsting. For her. Truth is, a good whisky will do just as well. Maybe there'll be fewer smiles. There'll be fewer hurts too though. He can't taste anything. Nothing serious. He has the flu. So, being full is just as good as empty right now. The edge is off his appetite. For living. He has been sleeping the sleep of the dead. Restfully empty. Slumbers as beautiful as a blank canvas. Just as meaningful too. Then, after many days, he dreamed last night. She said: Maybe you should... Song for the moment: Feed your head - Paul Kalkbrenner

He didn't know the shit had hit and smeared itself lovingly all over the fan till he heard it. Or, more correctly, did not hear it. Anything. Which was terrifying when it was buzzing with the sound of lilting greetings, jokes rehashed year after year, tinkling bells and the clash of silver/copper vessels on plates just a minute before. Taking his own stuff out of the bag, he turned around quickly. Everyone was silent. Everyone was staring. At him. From the slowly purpling face and bulging eyes of the vaadiyar (priest) to the disgusted glares lashing waves from 50 uncle-types who mentally crossed him off their list of potential maapilays (sons-in-law) on the bloody spot, he caught an invisible punch of disapproval and outrage that made him flinch. Surely he hadn't done anything so scandalous. Heck, he'd just got there! No time for an accidental, ill-timed fart or an involuntary cuss to escape. He'd definitely taken a bath this year. The clean lemony smells of Li...