The Far Distance

The far distance I remember well the gone days we sat in the corner of a restaurant for quasi-intellectuals talking about the book, we were going to write, telling it like it was. As the evening progressed, fueled by alcohol, we believed in our uniqueness, come tomorrow. Walking home, a rented room, the dream was fading unmade bed, library book not handed, in shattered around half read and dog eared. The grey morning and the self-loathing of a misfit trying to sleep a bit longer, overwhelmed by utter wretchedness. The white fog of loneliness, cigarettes and coffee. To escape, half of my life, I have lived in a country not mine the morning is sunny, the solitude persists the illusion is a stark reality tempered by mild weather. No, there is no flight from oneself, but life is what it is. But the dream continues; sad is the life of exile