My housemate’s trying to tell me something about cats. That if I didn’t know a cat was called a cat, what would it be? It’d be a cat. But he reckons it wouldn’t be. That nothing exists without association, he says. It’s something he studies at uni. But I don’t know what he’s going to be when he finishes, knowing about that.
A name like Romulus would be good at uni. You need a good name there, I reckon. A good image, uni is good for image.
Someone asked me if I’d found God. I don’t think I have. Or if I have, I didn’t recognise him. I met a guy in a servo once and his name was Jesus. I told him I’d read his book and he told me to fuck off.
I’ve finished work, so am back in town. Driving to the beach would be alright, but I’m out of inspiration. There are no more cigarettes; none under the seat, or back at home. Billy wasn’t at work, so I couldn’t ask for one either.
I once hid a cigarette in the house, just for the enjoyment of finding it later when I would need it. Like I could fool myself. But I couldn’t. As soon as I was down to my last puff, I remembered it. In fact, I had remembered it through the whole cigarette. I knew it was there, waiting for me to find it. I knew the way it laid in the drawer – it was under takeout menus and a frame someone gave me. I’d thrown some mail on top of it the other day, tried to make it look careless, but I knew it was under there; I knew the cigarette was waiting. I could have told you how many days old it was. Not now, but I could have then.