Not my words; Lautreamont’s. He was on to something. Except in Les Chants de Maldoror, he adds “I salute you,” whereas after a fortnight of constant sweating and the little seaside town I live in suddenly filling to the brim with fat people in sunglasses, shin-length shorts and no T-shirts pushing prams up and down my road, the only salute I feel like giving it employs.merely the one finger.
I woke up this morning to hear the most beautiful sound in the world: rain. I had left my window open as some respite against the heat, so the water cascading out of the drains was as clear as my alarm clock. The sky is a grey purer and less ostentatious than white, and all the sand trod along the road by those suntanned buffoons is little more than silt flowing into the drains. I know that, when the rain stops, the air will be charged for days – that damp electricity more refreshing even than the precipitation itself.
Suddenly, it’s not a flat in a seaside (or rather, riverside) town: it’s a flat on the edge of the world. And in my flat on the edge of the world, I can hear the slow turn of thunder above the Welsh hills across the expanse of water and wonder how it is that that’s not our eternal patriarch rather than the irritating nuclear demiurge now festering behind the clouds. Today, we’re the adopted bastards of the storm.