Nick Cave

He's in the corner of my eye, a man with his shirt so tight. A greyhound dressed up as a man. Unlike Camus: a man dressed up as a dog. He's heading away from me, thin hair bouncing near his collar and there is comfort in admiration at a safe distance. Then suddenly a chair is being organised and I leave rather than having to converse. He says hello, hello and barely gets away with it. I say hello, goodbye and wonder how long it would have taken to understand whether he is defined by home or other in a Jungian sense.