I am at the café. My non-existent hairline exists; the café, whereof I am ignored, does not.

My shoes cost everything. They are so rare, so shiny, as to perpetually remove themselves from possibility. And they do not exist. They are a Christmas present from my mumsey: of infinite sentimental value. They are “Désirer la Fin de la Mode”. That is the brand name. It is like “Enfants Riches et Déprimés”; albeit even more déprimés, and more infantile — hence tremendously expensive.

My café thoughts are: that I would never, ever ever, not in a million years, post about being a performative Sumerian scribe reading cuneiform tablets in Ancient Ur, in the market place or agora café or what-have-you. Because such a thing would be obvious and disastrous. In my fantasy the post would just be restacked endlessly: accumulated in the diagonal movement of criticism — and I would be an imposter, addicted to checking my phone or computer, and ungrateful for Finally being Totally Famous.

There are three baristas, of three ages: a Zoomette maiden, a Jolly Millennial Milf, and the Gen-X crone: named, respectively, Hope, Destiny and Morticia. They are dressed in green aprons. They have webbed feet. I am horny for all three of them; although, as it would appear, unnaturally attracted to Morticia — whose magnetic raven hair, with bone-grey streak, catches my lustred eye.

If I post one more thing, I think, one more thing about where I am, or what I am, or what frivolous vanities I have flocculated about me: the poles of the earth will be reversed. I wish to do “relational aesthetics” with the baristas. Three possibilities, but there are infinite fish in the ocean — in the end. Infinite fish, infinite sadness; in the ocean. In that bottomless ocean of women and time.

During my days on earth I have grown to understand the importance of objects: not to gather them too fast… and to approach each one with something of a Geiger counter, a compass of instincts, to put something in my online basket, feel its weight, then perhaps remove it — only to then, tomorrow, place it there again.

If I told you which book I am currently reading: you would just die. You wouldn’t survive. Some would instantly perish, in cardiac arrest. Others would wilt, mumbling to themselves apologies, crumble and wince, then keel over, eventually, running from the memory; somewhere foreign, arid and uncaring.

But Morticia has seen which book I am reading, and smiles. A knowing smile. I like Morticia: an unnerving, crazy, amount. I Like Morticia A Lot.