There were several versions of the same self and they all competed indiscriminately at first, jumping off the walls in a race to see who could get ahead.
There was the sensitive nature lover, austere and rosy cheeked, jumping logs in a wild quest for the holy egret.
There was the ladies` man, suave and uninstilled with the fear of others that the pale faces along the outside boundaries had taught his sleepless self to be, rich and brooding over lost and supposed great fortunes.
There was arrogant Mr. Ixp who never waited on the red carpet and whom all the press corps followed from destination to destination, sweeping glances and ill conceived snapshots into their pockets like mice after crumbly cheese.
There was the archaeologist and wine-swoven adventurer who crossed the desert recklessly once on twin camels and a pack of Lucky Strikes, Bogart style.
There was the artist who swirled and mixed cray-pas into wistful hippy chaste madonnas and circumnabulous clouds.
The realist who threw up his hands and said fuck it, live for the day as there won`t be many others.
The deep penetrating sensationalist who wrapped himself in the pleasures of a throbbing hard-on.
These were a few of the parlour tricks played by this overactive mind, twiddling its thumbs in the late afternoon, looking over fields of cotton through waves of hazy bourbon farts. Charlie K. sighed and slipped limply on to a sloppy finish.
