midnight glasgow. full moon gauzed in clouds on the left, diffusing a third of the night sky. men pissing in alleyways. God only knows why: pubs are open. august. i'm wearing: tight cotton undershirt, loose linen shirt, waterproof anorak with hood back, jeans and waterproof leather shoes. most guys wear jeans & long sleeve shirts or T-shirts with cryptic messages that declare allegiance to some clique of hipsters, & clutch burnt embers in doorways and ogle. most girls are less equipped - fishnets & lycra. short little dresses & baby-fat. lots of legs & tits & open toed shoes & shaved underarms. ridiculous but drunk enough not to feel the chill. most are drunk enough. stranger offers me a high five. i reciprocate. we grin like schoolkids. skinny kid preens in a storefront mirror. shoulders of his jacket jut like helicopter blades. he practices his swagger & slicks back greasy hair with his fingers. his shirt unironed. his belt buckle huge, drawing attention to his skinny groin. he's wearing white sneakers. he needs to hear that he looks ok, it would ease the tension, the collapsed spring being further wound, clockwise to the point of metal fatigue, but I keep to myself, don't want to injure his pride -- for all I know that's all he's got.

and tumble out of this cauldron of revelry across the M8 headed west into desolate one way streets lined with sandstone buildings & into dark alleyways with their gravel & mud & wooden fences & rubbish bins & freshly minted blue recycling containers. and views across gardens into bedroom windows people assume to be private... not that i look.

the contrast is stark. the moon seems to grow as it tracks across the sky, shedding mist. she was huge all along. just refused to compete with drunken women for my attention.

the flat is empty & cold. the fridge barren. i click on the electric kettle & make a cup of chamomile tea. strip & shower away the grit of a day at the Edinburgh theatre festival. Japanese Noh & Little Shop of Horrors & African street rumba & pipers kicking into & out of ecstatic doubletime. a fight where chairs smashed across backs.

i'd eaten with Zac & Tiff at the mosque kitchen. "discover Islam" was the slogan. The food was cheap & tasty -- curried veg & brown basmati rice & dal & lamb stew & a skewer of minced chicken kebab. seating at dirty tables outside under a tarp to protect ageist the elements but not the pigeons that stalked between chairs for droppings.

i stretch out on the bed waiting for sleep & ask for some insight in my dreams. wake 5 hours later with this memory: my mom had given birth to another child. somehow, simultaneously my own baby boy died. and i struggled with a cancer in my chest, right where the heart is.

i ponder this over a breakfast of poached eggs on toast & fresh strawberries.