day1:desh

the lights blind him.

'can i wear sunglasses?'

'sure', goes jay leno, 'can i get you something cold to drink, thums up, limca, musammi ka joos?'

jay leno's face falls off to reveal a very mongolian renu, with the rejoinder,, 'jaldi shaab, peeche line hai, line.'

desh moves forward slow. this is his dinosaur syndrome, with no hallucinogenic at all. he is slow. one of his feet is shorter than the other. etc. etc.

he moves disconsolately moves to a table that gives him, call centre grade 1 at inoks, a kingly view.

this is breakfast, after the night shift that begins 2 in the night. this is his life, monday to friday. he can't sleep weekends. he lives alone at the top of an asphalt tower (barsaati otherwise, it's probably on the fifth floor). he has no friends except his books and this chick he's hitting on over the internet. the mass hypnosis of sex has a stranglehold over him. film posters, ads on his second hand onida, spaghetti tops, sweat on white female skin, all join in a frightful chorus saying 'fuck, fuck, fuck.'

after jacking off, he amuses himself with notions of literary fame, when he will have millions around the world discussing his work, be, at once, the toast at oprah, new york and the playboy mansion, where he will be snorting coke off a b-movie actress' ass (here he considers going to jack off again).

he does this on weekends, when he isn't sleeping. he is a daysleeper.

weekend nights, he also goes to city squares that wake where he smokes and waits to warm his eyes on white female flesh.

as he smokes, under a tree, he notices her reefer go off. she is high. she also has the face of an angel.

maybe we could get talking he thinks to himself, he contemplates true love for a few minutes. he leaves her with his lighter, a souveneir of perhaps the only unadulterated love on the planet.

it's monday tomorrow.

on the jay leno show, she's in the front row. she's there for him.