I: Air of London – I’m stuck on the ceiling

I am stuck on the ceiling. Do I know how I got there? No. I forgot my own name. Several times. But I consider there are more… pressing concerns. I’m stuck on the ceiling. I think I said that before. But I’m up where they hang the stars, with their long poles, and I wonder sometimes what they hang them on. Or if they just stayed up by themselves.

I can confirm there are hooks they hang the stars from. From the ceiling. But, while it’s a good discovery, I’d rather have both soles of both feet back on the streets on the ground, not up here. I can’t do anything up here.

Perhaps this is just a description in itself though, while remaining calm at least. I’m up here, all alone, with my mouth shut. But to me it seems like everyone else is up there. With their mouths open. And do they look up at me? No. No no no no no! They don’t know I exist. Yet here I am.

Stuck on the damned ceiling.

Mister Miser

Good morning Mister Miser. Are you here to take both the Good and the Morning from me? Strip me of my dignity and order me to walk bare-foot and blood-covered with a bag over my head, breathing in my own previously-inhaled air. And my hands behind my back, tie there with the same cruelty as you had when you stuffed my head into the bag. That way the Good becomes Bad and the Morning means nothing anymore as the heavy material in front of my eyes makes me blind. I hear the laughter, sure, but I don’t see anybody so I can ignore it. You might think you’re taking my dignity from me, Mister Miser, but you’re not. Inside the dark sack I smile and my white teeth are whiter than yours. I don’t know why you hide my face – perhaps so all you white boys don’t have to see my white teeth shine brighter than yours. But I’ll tell you something. Your souls are black, far blacker than my skin could ever be.