An odyssey mundane

It has been approximately one lunar cycle since I landed in the horrid town of London, Ontario. How is it that I came here? I know not precisely for I was heavily sedated at the time, but I recall meeting a beautiful milk-white maid and following her into the roaring belly of a strange, mechanical bird that seemed to exude the sound of the Holy "Om." But upon awakening, she was gone and my pants were wet. Alone I was in a miniature airport. I was lost and sweating profusely.

On some level I knew I was now free from the many chains that have shackled my lithe, hairless body for so long--I was distant from the Baron of the Trees, my bottomless stash of drugs and alcohol, the letters from Helga and Myoki--and yet I have never felt so stifled. Years of seclusion have hampered my ability to adapt to new cultures, particularly modern ones. Had I awoken in Illyria or Fairyland, I would have been perfectly at home, but alas, I have come to the crushing realization that such lands exist only in the mind, and perhaps even there they are nearly dead (I have not been able to escape into literary worlds since arriving in the drab city).

Sunny it was on my first day. My first acquaintance was a chap named, believe it or not, "Mitch." He had a gaudy Canadian accent made worse by a horrendous rasp that instantly reminded one of the death rattle. Barely five foot tall, we must have looked an odd pair making chit-chat on the street. The conversation was awkward as he only talked of hockey and getting drunk--and he made the solemn ceremony of intoxication sound utterly vulgar and base. Clearly he had not studied the drunken state at all, so I suggested he read some Baudelaire before the weekend came. He said he would, but I was certain he would not.

The air was frigid. It has not changed. I long for coastal climates and despise this flatness. Flatness of landscape and flatness of heart. Few benefits do I see in this land other than the safety of boredom and the reasonable cost of property.