The track down

Sitting here with a tea-ball full of anti-toxins and a skater punk from Barcelona, who is as thin as a hair; stirring the congealed milk into my cup, watching the grey mole on his ear move up and down as he chews. The java hugging geniuses in the corner chain smoking their way to fame. My lack of style is stylish. I look out the window, it makes me sad, the skater shows me his pierced leg joint, it's infected, he pokes at it with his finger. When the sky gets heavy like this, when you are without language or a fantasy, without any hope of expression, you do things that you know will hurt you.
I get ready to leave, refuse more tea, the skater punk is going to a friends house to watch a Polanski film, asks me if I want to come along, I say no.
A car pulls up as I walk out into the street.