Balding

Rosewood pillow and a leg of the armchair fractured, the cold, hard broken Chinese furniture. I studied legs of women of young girls of men of tables of stools and stray cats, and thought of models and whores. In a public place, I see her balding like an old man, a few grey strands on top - the top of her head an open field. She sees better with her glasses on. She did not hide herself or her frame of a ten year old, I mean, the size of her bones not the skin or posture. Few strands like the Chinese painter from an art academy wandering along Middle road. She is under the noon sun, the noon next to a complex, I can still see the shadow of things and beings. She moves under the shelter that leads to the interchange, she is not another mad woman in the amusement park with ten dirty plastic bags tied around her and an unwashed head, she is not another homeless man, sleeping around, lying on the parapet, scratching his crotch. I want to believe she is chaste, I only see she is only balding. I thought about mothers and skeletons, young mothers to be, mothers have been.
I was on my way to get a book about Sun Yat-sen from a balding professor, but he was not in, I guess, he spent most part of last night with a Saint by the name of James. By the coffee place, I saw the Chinese painter bald and undead, I saw and read and learnt that most of his friends are now spectral. I relate this to the balding Javan Myna we saw when we were along the same street.
Few nights ago, you told me it was cold. And the wind and temperature here in December could create the illusion. The temperature made it proper to understand rationalism better. We know it is ridiculous to say it was cold last night. But it did help with your reading of German Idealism and metaphysics. I told another old man, not the balding one, but a real hairy one about one year for archiving, one year for reading, one year for writing, one year for publishing, one year for collecting royalties, I did not tell the old man, not the balding one, but a real hairy one, that it would one year of reading only what I have read before. One year of rereading. It is ridiculous to think about writing under this weather, you might have ink blots on the pages of your manuscript, but nothing like Victor Hugo’s, it is sweat not tears, it is not hardship but heat and humidity.
I was at a coffeeshop. I saw four crabs in a huge fish tank. They have ample space to move, although the claws were tied with dirty strings the colour of those crabs. They aren’t hairy crabs. They are from Sri Lanka. Yesterday was a public holiday, most of them must have been slain, quartered and soak in chilli or pepper last evening - overpopulation.