Other things

Seems a bit early for another milestone so here's some other creative pursuits..Above is a recently completed artwork and below a song and the latest bit of writing. None of it is particularly original but I like doing it and I just can't get into golf or DIY.

https://soundcloud.com/type-slowly/only-a-heaven

 
Little Legs woke up feeling slightly disorientated. He was alone in an empty room. Cold winter sunlight slanted in through the window making him shield his eyes as he took in his surroundings. Noirish black lines, shadows from the blinds, lined the opposite wall. He looked to the table on his left and saw a note left under a pack of cigarettes. Next to it was a tray with a croissant and an arrow pointing to a mocha on the stove. The note informed him that Liliane was in her studio and he should could come down and see her when he woke and had had breakfast. Little legs had no clue what to do with the mocha so he had a cigarette and ate the croissant washed down with a glass of water. The gig last night had gone well. He lost count of how many encores the band played. In the end they lasted longer than the set and it was past 2 before things started to wind down. 
Downstairs on his way to Liliane he met Steve and Brooksie sitting at a table with a vast array of empty beer bottles and overflowing ashtrays. They looked like they had been there all night.
He sat at the table. Though realising that unlike his taxi mates the band were unlikely to indulge in laddish sexist banter he still secretly hoped that his liason with Liliane would produce a degree of interest and maybe a touch of respect but neither was forthcoming. The band were genuinely in it mainly for the rock and roll. Sex and drugs came second.
They were joined by one of the organisers, a very tall man from Holland (weren’t they all mused Little Legs) who pulled up a chair and started to roll the tiniest thinnest roly Little legs had ever seen.
“I see your friend zis morning”
Everyone looked blank
“the itchere”
“Ah Emile?” said Steve
“Emile? zat’s not ees name, Issat what e tell you?
He smiled and raised his eyes
“ Emile zis time. I find im at ees usual place, Needle City. He made a gesture with his arm universally understood as the sign of a junkie”
It transpired that Emile, real name Rolf, was a notorious local addict who had made multiple attempts to go clean usually by going on protracted hitchhiking odysseys throughout Europe but thus far always eventually returning to his old habits.
Little legs had read about addictive personalities, usually poorly written articles in womens magazines he found in the flats of his old girlfriends. They seemed to lack scientific rigour rather being reassuring tracts designed to excuse peoples tendancy to be lazy and greedy. Little legs was happy to go along with this preferring to view himself as having some mild condition rather than admitting he was simply weak willed and feckless.
Heroin though part of a number of his taxi driving colleagues lives was not something he entertained, a deep seated self preservation drive helping in that regard. But he certainly found himself compulsively drawn to drink, smoke, gamble and form unsatisfactory and dangerous sexual liaisons. He was also expert in denial, deception dishonesty and deflection when challenged on the consequences. Still no ones perfect he thought lighting up, taking a swig from a half empty bottle of beer and sauntering towards Lilianes workroom.