Pitcher for a glass.
So goes Lawrence Kansas.
If I went on for too long I'd probably bore you with slurred ramblings, so I'll transcribe a lovely story I have of a night spent drunk waiting for a plane in Nairobi.
27 obvious americans were sitting in the Nairobi Java House cafe. Can you dig?
We finished bottles of Tusker Lager with vigour. American swigs.
making obnoxious noises while the international crowd waited,
for thier ships to set sail.
Jetliners sailing through the clouds.
Read if you know where I'm headed.
17th January 2009
I've been sitting at at a cafe with the group for 3 hours. We're in the airport in Kenya. Nairobi.
Disconnected thoughts. Or do thoughts just evade me?
2 Litres of Tusker. 2 Litas of Tuska.
These were the names I gave Wilson and Irby's vans in Kenya.
I wrote them in dust on the cab roofs. Perhaps 2 Litres of Tuska has illegibilized my script.
Perhaps, however, maybe...
It has loosened my lips.
But the resultant outflow seems little. Nothing more than speech for sounds' sakes.
How can I be content when my contentedness is dependant on ink shapes staining paper?
How much more must I write before I realize there's no real need?