February 16th, 2014, 1pm in Mitaka, Japan
A year ago it was grapes. Now it's chocolate. Or whatever we happen to have.
RAH RAH! he screams and dances and smiles and laughs. He ate two pieces of dark Peruvian chocolate and a sugar cube. He will never sleep again. He runs like a drunken monkey. He is dressed in a snow suit. He falls. He does not care. A dog jumps at him. He does not care. He runs into some old people, through old people, around the young and confused, those smoking, he trips, stands, runs again. He is stopped only by the puddle. Muddy and horrible and he splashes in it and people scream. He does not care. He runs more. He runs faster. He is super charged. Two dark Peruvian chocolates do not fuck around. A sugar cube sonic boom. He scales the snow. Slides. Yells Chinese into the air. The old drunken men stare. We struggle to keep up. He does not care. He is flying. He is as high as he can get without parental arrest by the authorities. Sugar courses through his tiny veins. His veins are all sugar. Pumped with sugar. He bleeds sugar. There is nothing but a white noise of his universe. And puddles. And mud. And he stomps and splashes and he does not care. He is dancing. His small feet lively and quick and now in doubletime and bowing to the ladies. 1 The little man is flying and he does not care.
Sundays with the godson.
Cormac McCarthy, Blood Meridian — not to imply, of course, that the godson is The Judge; but he was certainly dancing as if he owned the universe today. ↩