15th October 2008

Yesterday I found an old notebook of stories and poems I wrote when I was 9 or 10 years old. In the front of the notebook it said “In the event of me becoming famous this must not be published!”.  I must have written that last part a few years later.  So why didn’t I just throw it away then?  (sentimental)  One of the stories in the notebook is about a man who works in one of those giant construction cranes, and he doesn’t have a house so he lives there too, high in the sky above the city, but he’s really happy there, and he’s made the cabin into a nice home.  Every night he looks down on the city and sees all the people and what they are doing, but he has no wish to join them.  Then one day he’s looking down and he witnesses a murder in the street, and he knows that he should climb down from the crane and go to the police to tell them what he saw, but he just can’t bring himself to go back to the world below, so he keeps it to himself.  I’ve seen some strange and violent things from my window gazing down on the city too.  Last night when I looked out a man was on the ground being repeatedly kicked by 2 others at the bus stop. Afterwards he didn’t move for a long time, and no one else was around, so I was on the verge of going down to check on him.  But then he finally got up and staggered off, looked ok, probably the alcohol numbed the pain.  After that I had a drink myself.

 

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