Matthew Joseph Andel - The Yowl On The Rue lyrics

The middle of the sun is my solitary domicile. I almost find it needless to speak of but my concentration has been, sundry of late. It is hard to stay secure, difficult to stay aware. The howling sounds of an emptying bottle penetrated my head. I stood up off the floor and walked to the singular dresser of my compact loft in North London and opened the top drawer. The contents, as they unfortunately appeared at the time, were two American quarters equating fifty sense (all the money I had to my name), a Pulsar wrist watch (broken), and a pair of recently stolen aviator sungla**es. I went for the aviators, it seemed a bit bright outdoors. I also never really appreciated people seeing my eyes. Too telling. As I entered the street below, full of unknown creatures and moving exploits, my eyes became hung on a man laying flat on his back in the middle of the road. At first I thought to myself, "what a lucky son of a b**h, to get to die on a Sunday." Then he snored. He had a paper cup clinched in his right hand. I walked closer to get a more in tune glance at what did the old man in. He had more money than I. I stepped over his comatose corpse but not before thinking of abducting his cup. Continuing with my day, and forgetting of the man, I headed towards a cafe in hopes a certain kind soul would bless me with some coffee to cure my temporary ailments. The shop owner, the citizens about, it didn't matter to me. But, no such success. Only blank stares and warranted snickers. What more did I expect? Intensely thirsty, I cupped a handful of water out a fountain, nearby. The water tasted like pennies. A glorious, gallant morning tainted by the memory of vampires. I was the vampire to these people. Taking a drink out of a dirty fountain, might as well have been doing the same out one of their necks. Savagery. On their part, not mine. I stood on the corner of the street, just viewing the multiple forms of human that pa**, for a while before I retired to a bench and wrote myself the following letter... "As the moody movements of my brain swell, I fall into a deep psychosis fueled by inherent rage and disposed intellect. Truly a deadly collaboration. Even a wise man faults at these tracks. Most logical idea for a sane one is to pull up right his pants, tighten the laces on his shoes, and run. Even so, a reminder that I need no warning for. No expedited ringing followed by incessant badgering. No shout or horn from the past attempting to apprise me. I have seen it close. Closer than most would allow themselves to admit. I, although, do not conduct the ability to lie about anything relating to this specific occurrence. I must say, my reluctance has absolutely nothing to do with being strong willed or more prestigious. In fact, the opposite I'm afraid is reality. My reservations toward integrity stem from a weakness in handling open candor. Not from some chivalrous, high minded respect for veracity among my propensities. If I failed to be honest with what I know is certain, I don't think I would be able to live with much purpose. Sustaining the original thought,once a mind is subject to self ridicule and anger it becomes a fireball of sophisticated deliberation being sidelined by anxious and erroneous measures. To try and slow down the reaction is comparable to understanding how to reverse the current course of physical process. Unlikely. Plausible at best. But to retreat and ignore what is being propagated throughout your sovereign being? To rescind the vindicated abnormalities that walk through the abstract and neglect an entire aspect of your sentience? Not for me. I am unable to conform to comfort myself. I must be aware of the parasite that eats my weight away. I need to be able to speak loud so that it hears me. Every occasion I slip into pockets of time where the dialog runs thin, and every occasion I fall to the quick judgments of misconception. My fate is to listen, my fate is to know." I didn't know what it meant at the time, but soon I would decipher it. I looked up and realized how long I had been sitting there. I now regretted not grabbing the watch but not for long until I remembered it's functional status. The darkness of the night, I felt again. It was on its way. Maybe that was the problem. I could not find a way. After sitting still thinking for a few more minutes ideas of conviction and pride fell below anger and obstruction. I screamed to the top of my pipes, and abilities, for at least another minute. The birds sang with me. The crickets played in unison. All the dogs and cats of London gazed in appreciation. No one batted an eyelash. I made the decision of not returning to the loft. All I would be leaving behind was a few books (Camus, Ginsberg, & Bukowski mostly), my toothbrush (needed to be replaced anyhow), and the misfortune that had been endured. After visiting a post office, and mailing the aforementioned letter to my good friend's address in California, I arrived at the airport. Back to America, I suppose.