the problem of responsibility

All about rhythm, think rhythm, rhythm, all good lovers had it he thought now full of coke, jockeys too and those who did dangerous things. Rhythm, the word roamed around his head, his stride purposeful now that he’d found his feet and was out of his head, coked up, no longer thinking but absorbing, new zone, new faces, strange accents, even buses. The tube was a short walk, lizzie tutored him on it, the route to success as he called it. Even the money in his pocket was new, sterling not euro. He checked his trouser pocket, feeling the wedge thin, enough for the moment. Lizzie by his side, she brushed her hand against his side while they walked quickly. No time to romance, his head recalling a poem he intended reading that evening, titled “it wasn’t me”, a story of suicide, or those who take their lives for no reason it seems. We’re all smarter tomorrow after learning what we learned today. He’d a friend who passed that way, his name was harry too. Hung himself after falling out with a woman, death threat so to speak. Women, had to answer for a lot, including, stop being negative he thought, but how can one interpret suicide any other way. He smiled, she seemed happy, he did seem happy, then she cried. Harry looked back at an old man begging outside a McDonalds outlet. He had loads of reasons to end his life. At least he was trying, a feed me sign at his feet, any other day he’d have helped, being coked up all he thought about was himself. Great thing about cocaine, solves the problem of responsibility. and who among us goes looking for responsibility, i think she’s on the bus that went that way, wasn’t too long ago, ah there she is….

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