The Devil's star

6

Friday. Water.

There is a drought, but I saw the policeman coming away from the watering hole. Water for the thirsty. Rain water, river water, amniotic waters.

He didn’t see me. He staggered over to Ullevalsveien and tried to hail a taxi. No-one wanted to take him. He was like one of the restless souls wandering along the river bank without a ferryman to take him across. I have some experience of what that feels like. Being hounded by those you nourished. Being rejected when for once in your life it is you who needs help. Discovering that you’re being spat on and that you have no-one to spit on in return. Quietly considering what you must do. The paradox is, of course, that the taxi driver who takes pity on you, it is his throat you cut.