00:00 Thika Road. Coming back from a late dinner with a a Spanish guy who told me: I'm happy. And I told him: I'm happy also. But we were not hungry so we didn't eat anything. He was telling me stories about hungry lions, about hungry leopards, every single word was about stomachs, about food. But on the table there was just Coke. Normal for him. Diet for me. I was telling him stories about believing so much in something, so much that when loss knocks on the door, everything has been scorched by our own passion.
I'm listening to Philip Glass. Fat insects
crash against my car. Accidents can produce beauty, I thought. The
insect's black blood is stars, is planets, it is drawing constellations
on the car's glass. I'm feeling small, and mad, and young, and out of
control. I step on the gas. I know I could crash whenever. My own
accident. My blood producing beauty on the road.
I arrive home. I eat a mango. I brush my teeth. Game over. I tried. Game over.