Hunted

A man has been following me once again. He seems to be wanting sound bytes. He has a microphone attached to a little black box that is secured to his belt. He wears headphones and is not subtle when he tries to capture my voice. I'm worried he might be trying to record as many words as he possibly can so he can jumble up my sentences.

'I want to end my communication with those I'm fond of.'

Or;

'I'm not particularly good at my chosen profession.'

I have begun to work on a code so that he won't be able to catch me saying words that might be incriminating. The man has no teeth. I know this not because I have seen his mouth, but because I can hear him slurping. I presume he does this so he doesn't drool, but the sound he makes petrifies me. The drinking for this reason has sadly escalated. Mornings consist of four sharp Bloody Marys. Lunch comes with wine and without anything accompanying it. Weekdays, scotch rests in my trembling hand, and I save the weekends for gin the king of the depressants, and the queen of the sobbing fear.

Sleepless nights once again. Apart from the slurping. My eyes remain open and I can see the little red light that flashes on the little black box. As the sun comes up, I shower, clean my teeth, shave, and dress in silence. I meticulously prepare my drinks, and sit zombie like on my balcony never saying a word. I'm working on my secret code.

Maybe he'll turn my voice into sweet pop culture syrup. He would have to take snippets of words and paste them together. I try not to talk about pop culture.

I'll keep you informed,