Crazy Charlie

The Celtic music coming from inside sounds mystical ..the warm westerly flow out here feels pleasurable, sweaty ..but pleasurable ..sunlight filters through the trees ..inner voices barely detectable ..feeling empty and forgetful ..birds singing ..digital symbols flicker by ..without meaning ..I just watch them cross my laptop screen ..I don’t know why ..solitude is short but sweet ..Charlie gets out of his tent by the creek ..hair everywhere ..shouting obscenities ..without meaning ..he rolls a cigarette ..while I pour coffee ..and ask if he’s well. "Why do those fucking birds cry like that?" "In English we call it singing." I say "..although some Asians cultures call it crying ..why, feeling Oriental?" "I feel like a Rottweiler from hell." "You smell like one too ..what’s the matter ..too toasty to sleep?" "Man, I slept on the ground last night." "Hey, the door was open." "Nah, it’s cooler down there ..besides, I pass open doors ..haven’t been through one in months ..don’t wanna start now ..it’s a habit that’s hard to break." "Can we drive down to the showers on the beach, or ..are car doors habit forming too ?"