Still life


Sitting alone in the corner, I’m comfortable alone. That doesn’t mean that I like it, but it’s easier sometimes. Being alone. 

A jazz ensemble is playing an ambient piece, I’m at the monthly evening event at my local museum of art. I always come thinking I’ll meet a some smoky eyed beauty that loves art and ennui, well hit it off, have a mad tear about town, make passionate love in romantic old world locals then settle into deep philosophical discussions on art and the decay of society interspersed with talk of sex and libertine ideals. 

It never happens, yet I’m hopeful. I know that cool chick is out there and she’s not met an equally cool dude and is thus still available. Frankly I don’t have the looks or the money to pull that one off anyway, because to jet around the old world I have to make money at my ordinary job. 

Still I’m hopeful staring at my still life in the canvas of my dreamscape.  She’s out there and I just need to get my nose out of this phone and look up so I don’t miss her.  


©The autobiography of Mr. Perfect, 2017

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