Cassius bent and spat.
He yawned widely.
His his mouth was thick with anise
and cigarette smoke.
He looked at the horizon,
squinting through the heat-distorted light
wavering over the bleak landscape.
Morrocco.
He was spending his life savings.
Travelling.
Walking.
Looking.
Writing.
Smoking.
Drinking.
Drinking very heavily.
Very ocasionally fucking.
He ordered another round,
bent to the table and his
leather-bound notebook,
eking out a poem.
Love's pursuit had done this to him.
Or rather, it's achievement had.
Now?
A cuckold careening
into full scale alcoholism,
debauchery and womanizing.
He had it, then it blew up in his face.
And it was this potential,
this latent gluttony and debasement,
that he had always known was there,
that took over when love failed him
for the very last and truest time.
