I am here in this cafe on a slow, quiet afternoon reading a book. For now, the pain and sorrow are at bay. My life seems momentarily frozen in this hour and I am glad that I am aware of the simple pleasure this moment is giving me. I try to place it among the other things that give me pleasure. Definitely it is not the same as fucking under the influence when my skin breaks into a thousand mouths voracious for sensation. But my head is similarly ensconced up in the clouds. Yes I do derive pleasure, in this moment, right here, right now, as the sun sets and I have on the table a half-empty cup of coffee, a book that has been read half-way and a smouldering cigarette about to be extinguished to a stub.