bouquiniste

i am immersed. i am writing. i thought i’d write to you. there are stories beginning to take shape again. i am inarticulate. play the vagabond. would wander out in the urban wild to listen. close listening is what it’s all about for me. & watching. those private moments when a stranger sits on a bench, drinks her coffee, smokes her cigarette. a refuge. i want to write to her, for her. it’s why i’ve taken up smut again. to whisper filthy stories into the ear of that woman, that office worker. to satisfy her desires to escape into the raw while keeping herself safe. she is on a bus en route to work. she’s got one of those e-book thingies, spindle, shingle, piffle, blurp. but it is her private space. no one needs to know what she reads…what she fantasizes about as she types another memo to so and so blankity blank. while she sits on a concrete edge in the shade on a busy street during lunch hour, munching on carrot sticks and reading whatever tales i choose to spin. make me a storyteller. make me a pleasure giver. make me a keeper of secrets…