it started with breakfast a vile coffee like the dredge of a dredged swamp like the worst nightmares of being lost in the Paris sewers and chased by protoplasmic devils, this sludge next to which Turkish coffee was like spring water had its sequel in the bistro where it was my lot to draw the cup with the broken tea bag and i thought i’d never shake the sensation of slimy leaves snaking down my gullet like hair balls swallowed by the bathtub drain but before i knew it i found myself in a cafe for lunch which didn’t have the tonic water i craved so i settled for plain tap water plain except for the insects swimming up to perch on the rim and i wondered if they danced the same dance in my belly and even this revulsion passed as i ran out without paying and bought a container of ice cold orange juice from a street vendor, ran with it to the emptiest street of the emptiest district near the docks but as i put the straw in i hit ice, all ice that would not melt for anything and i cursed at it and threw it in the river, then found a place for dinner but the beer was too weak to take seriously, had a head tasted like dishwater suds and not the slightest kick in creation so i was sure not to try an after dinner drink though the waiter was pushing the Spanish brandy and took offense when i questioned its blue color, well i wasn’t about to argue over blue brandy not after this day so when i arrived at Brigitt’s apartment near midnight and settled into the rocking chair a parched man i could not believe her offer of port though i’m sure she was sincere enough, instead i got raving, swore i’d never touch port, not any port or drinks of any kind and i nodded off rocking and mumbling, would not dream of sipping from Brigitt’s breast for fear of gargoyles within, of oceans of unpalatable sour and salty milk, but in an instant i saw the Sahara vast and scorched, how subterranean passages connected it with the Paris sewers, like spider webs of lunacy wet and dry.

Bio: Philip Wexler