May 4th, 2002 - 12:12 a.m.

Perhaps, amusement, coldness, and a quote.

Maybe. Maybe if I shut my eyes tightly and.... Nope. Still here. I can pretend, though. Spread my arms, and embrace it.

One of the odd luxuries of youth, is that poverty may be attempted stylishly with relative ease. It seems that between the ages of say, twenty to twenty sevenish, a lack of monetary girth and material possessions carries with it a general aura of cool. A humble flat, the paying of rent merely an accident, an afterthought. The diet consisting of tinned soups and cigarettes. Old laundry and newspaper print underground magazines peppering the floors and surfaces. A consistent state of disarray, the hair just a little unkempt, the clothes just a tad worn. A permanent hands in pockets slouch, that look of pseudo scornful nonchalance. A lament of being misused and unrecognised for writing/artistic/musical/programming talents. The claim that the government ought to be reformed, but without a solid manifesto. Essentially, Gordon of �Keep the Aspidistra Flying�. What becomes of that breed of human, I wonder, after they pass the acceptable age? Most amusing.

There is a feeling of coldness, in the abdomen. Radiates outwards. Lumpish. The approximate size of a rolled up pair of silk socks, the density of fromage blanc, and the texture of laminate. Will soon grow tendrils, and snake down to the knees.

�The French, they love it! Oh, god bless the French. They are just like New Yorkers, but they speak French, and of course, they live in France.� It is odd to sit in a theatre on the opening night of a film, the room only populated by six.

N.

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