Tristan
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Tristan Tzara, The Greatest Dadaist, lives in my bathroom sometimes.I am his incarnation, and we share toothbrush.He often takes a bath using an orange floating device.It doesn’t match his black clothes that well.
But he is laughing it off, saying that’s life at its best!He spends the days writing poetry, shaving and drying my towel.Seldom does he go out, too sunny for his white skin, but it would help to dry his clothes a bit.
He likes to eat ribs, but me being a vegetarian causes some issues, of significance.So Tristan is quite thin at this point, complains a lot.It can be quite crowded in my little bathroom too, privacy issues. It is still his workplace. Employees must wash their hands before going back to work.
So, his paper gets moist as he doesn’t know what a computer is, at his age.I offered him my sofa, but he feels it is too much space; he needs to be confined a little, to create.
But at times he disappears during the night, never figured out where he is going.He brings flowers back, to put under my pillow, as I pretend to sleep heavily.I kind of hope he always will be here, or maybe we will switch places?