Back home, where he sits atop his throne, the centre of sanity, where he can be, himself, the tragedy, is that home consists of bad memories, a reminder of what shouldn't be, his place to dwell, the room at the top of the stairwell, was light years away from the outside hell, he shut the door upon entry, threw his everything on the floor and tiptoed gently.
Pictures of past pleasures plastered two of the four walls, old friends, an old him, smiling, having a ball, he lay on his bed, arms by his side, slightly intoxicated, an alocoholic high, the room span some, the results of cognacs and dark rum, he closed his eyes for a second, but at that moment his phone beckoned, the familiar 'beep beeping' of a text message:
"Hey love, hope u r well, im swell, u coming for dinner friday? need to know how many, ask them lot aswell."
He shook his head, he knew her type, not a friend, just someone who enjoyed his company on random nights. He trusted nobody, least of all women, serpents in satin, the title he'd give 'em. 'Forget her!' Right now, he craved rhythms, syncopation and harmony, he grabbed his headphones off the nightstand and threw on a CD, Miles Davis was what he heard, he held adoration for the man, over the years he he had become a hige jazz fan, he felt the tension, the build, their brilliance, their skill, herbie on keys was enough to please, he closed his eyes and slipped between the sheets, rubbing his legs in an attempt to generate heat, music gave him hope, its beauty, its joy, it helped him cope, in musical bliss he lay, entering his dreams in a silent way.
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