Not even a first draft.
The girls you fuck after walking dark dripping streets of rain are just mothers. They mope about, painting faces, placing make-up, worrying about paunches and stockings that smell like piss.
You want something that doesn't exist. Your disease. Wake up man! Stop trudging around "The Rocks" assaying crevices and divining rocks for impressions of sexual lust. It's stupidity.
Better to sit to warm bread and tales of Ulysses in warm comfort. Or Gaelic passion fiddled for tourists, and a kiss on cheek. Reciprocal, meaningless kisses. Chalk studied bodies poised like waxen gelatin. They simulate the perfect cadaver, model the correct density for brachytherapy studies. A slight gelatinous cheese cloth density - a skin, a cheek. A touch of friendship.
So it was we wandered, as I had hunted years before, homeless, forlorn and lost in indiscriminate passion. Or lust. But this time with friends.
And a cure, curled in brick wall cavities, molded for reasons other than drunken proclivities - meaningless actions caught on film. Digital print flaunting youth and extravagant meaninglessness. Pose. Flash. Harsh light and smiles stumble ahead. So lost - so climb illegal fences like immigrants. Boat people slapping car mirrors. Shame to not be understood. But then I'm a hypocrite. Oh to be as staid as they think I am...