eating

borrowed bike

My lovely Danish cat lady host and bike-lender is pushing a healthy Danish six feet tall, so the first thing I did today was ride the borrowed bike directly to the coffee shop out of which my friend the proprietor also rents out bikes and ask him to take a wrench to its seat height for me. Then I hung around a while, getting rowdy on a latte—I guess now commences a slide back into caffeine, as everywhere there is no other choice—and advice on how to live. He told me to seek out Jewish painters and/or musicians in Berlin, that they will anchor the energy I’m out here after. He said, Danish people are like fucking ice.

emptied the ashtray

A man just sat down near me outside this cafe where I am having twitchy post-club afternoon frūstūck and emptied the ashtray on his table into the ashtray on the table between us
It makes me think of people who have to flush a toilet before they can use it
Does it matter if your own waste falls upon the waste of others

overrun with my physical self

I said,

Everything about yesterday was exhausting. I left Pilou before the meal of snails because it became too much work to chat with him in French. I got into the house okay and ate the rest of my cheese and seven apricots and three carrots and half a loaf of bread soaked in coconut oil because it was what I had.

Today I’m a little overrun with my physical self — yesterday I got barnacles embedded in my foot and I have a good surgical needle, carried with me, but man this is a job, and on account of the IUD I had placed in New York I find I bleed from my reproductive organs in a newly voluminous way — like, a leaving bloody handprints on Sylkaʼs bathroom walls way. What a burden is a body. 

I am redrawing ma pancarte now, and after this I will go buy barres énergetiques, and then I will go to the beach. 

A seagull near me is having a hard time eating a whole ice cream cone. 

someting squiggly and marine

In the same bar that la patrona of my casa rural brought me to last week, killing time before my blablacar to Barcelona, I have ordered some kind of open-faced mini-sandwich featuring something squiggly and, to my eye, marine.
Pescado, said the barman to my quizzicality, but I bet it’s not actually, not taxonomically.
Everyone is starting to look familiar to me, moving so quickly from place to place as I am.
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