Cogs can think.

Saturday

It’s nice to chat about the shit in my head
With someone who just listens to you instead

Pick up Renate at her place, drive home. Watch Dit Was Het Nieuws, laugh a lot. Make ourselves comfortable on the couch, watch Panic Room. Film’s over, channel surf’s up. BBC1, The Eagles, Farewall Tour, 2004, Melbourne, Australia. Make Renate understand why Desperado is about my brother. Drive Renate home, chat for well over an hour in front of her house in my car. Talk about people, ourselves; about the past, the present, the future. How much do I like that girl, she asks. I don’t know, I reply.

Sunday

Make yourself at home
We got diesel or some of that homegrown
Sit back in your throne, turn off your phone
‘Cause this is our zone

Chatting with Felicia all day, try to study. Watch how my beloved Ferrari falls through the ice in Monaco. Take a refreshing shower, charge myself up for tonight. Jump in my car, make it to Alkmaar Noord Station just in time. Jump on the Intercity, Original Pirate Material in my MD. Fall asleep on the train, still tired from the night before. En route to Paradiso. Inside, buy a The Streets shirt, size M, that’ll be 22E. The Mitchell Brothers warm the crowd, they leave stage, big round of applause. Mike apears on stage, the place starts radiating. All the songs, vibrant, alive, energetic, electric, up, down, back, forth, Nadia, Marco, Levi, me, people I don’t know and never will know, all sharing one love, the love for Real Music, from the Birmingham geezer. You’re fit but you know it, getting laid is easy when you’re famous, it’s Leo’s birthday, don’t you wish your boyfriend was hot like me, radiating, jumping. Settle down. Never went to church, watery eyes, you left me behind to remind me of you, dry your eyes. Mate. Central Station, car, home.

That’s it
Turn the page on the day, walk away