I am pulp faction. Tomorrow, I will be discarded, pulped or worse. Today, I’m headed west, picked up for a few coins and carried with him, this hangover morning, tucked under his business-clad arm.
Journeying, he rests me on my front and lingers on my back while his head bangs and pores ooze residual alcohol from Thursday’s lash. Riffling to page three, his gaze scorches the brazen, bare-breasted beauty as mizzle darkens the day. There’s no hint of a sunshine lunch and scant chance to raise his face towards warmth and glory. Dim and dull. It’s the same old story.