Dance, monkey, Dance.

It is a quiet city street in Sydney, in the middle of the night, and my friend is up a tree. He is up a tree because he is trying to give up cigarretes.

Foolishly, most foolishly, he has entrusted them to me, and told me to make it difficult for him to get them. Thus has begun a series of escalating dares. Singing revolution songs in foodcourts. greeting strange women with strange questions, or straining in the branches of a midnight tree, striving to bring me the leaf I desire.

Dance, my nicotine monkey. Dance the night away.

All ideas are welcome, I’m running a little thin.

Journal Comments

  • flower68
  • flower68