While the jazz plays.

The buzzer is buzzing since an hour. For how long it will buzz, I do not know. Nobody cares to turn it off. Or that they are used to its irritating sound. I am not. I put on some jazz and wait for it to stop. Miles Davis. John Coltrane. It’s a blue world and what else colour will suit it. The trumpets play and then stop. Somebody turns off the buzzer. Thank God! I could pay that person, but I don’t know who it was and I do not care. Now things are quieter. It is like all the sickness suddenly left this place. Some murmuring outside the door. Some plates banging against each other. Hunger strikes at odd hours. Any hour is odd. I am reading James Joyce and he’s hilarious, like like Beckett. Both were Irish lunatics. I might be the next one, only un-Irish, but I can only hope for that. On my plate are three raisins remaining. For some reason, I am not eating them. They look infected but they are not. The really infected ones I have already eaten without much thought. My tooth aches. Maybe it’s the cold getting me. Maybe the early morning frigid shower, Maybe the beer. When you do not know, there’s scope of pointless thinking. The only noise now is of my own table fan. I never turn it off. Never. Once I died, and the fan was still running. And then it malfunctioned and I had to come back from being dead just to have it repaired. Now it is running fine and without any remorse. Some kid outside is doing its duty and shrieking for no reason. The speaker on my table stopped speaking at I don’t know what point. And now, its speaking suddenly has started me. I am startled and that’s what I am. I don’t know what to do. I pick up the speaker and inspect. Must be the loose wires. Must be. I push it inside the little hole in the speaker and it screams again. Scream all it can but I won’t be startled again. Coltrane is back with his sadness and the world is still blue. I walk to the other room and then come back to my chair. Everything appears quite clean. It must be somebody else’s home but it is mine and I could have sold it but I don’t own it. I look out the window and all is green and I am tired of it. Yellow must return. Or the deathly brown. Anything but green. The leaves can turn orange. The sky can turn maroon. The eggs have boiled somehow and now, they must be eaten. I cannot believe it. Eating boiled eggs. Or I could keep it for a week in fridge and then throw it out the window at somebody. I did that once. It was fun. The egg didn’t hit anybody. All I know is that it went out the window and then I ran inside like I was never there. Most probably, some pig ate it. So many stray pigs here. Last month one of them bit a kid or is that what I am imagining. Anyways, it must be painful. Even tearful. The kid must have screamed but not as much as my speaker. It’s a blue world and what else colour will suit it. Coltrane is dead and so is Joyce and what remains of them is consumed on weekends by rodents like me.

Copyright © Tomic Riter. All rights reserved.

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