It couldnt . It just couldnt frame the picture more perfect. My stommicks all fluid and I have been spicing down the pathetic feeling, the smell of death really, the loss of control, the annoiance, the absence of anything basic, I think ,with my 5th reading of Naked Lunch to try and breed my fighterspirit.

I slip into baggy surplus military pants, a brand new white short sleeved thai shirt, my newly achieved tan only just make me look less pale than I feel. The hotel lobby is crowded with locals and in this here city of Kholat, the white caucasians doesnt win by numbers but merely on cultural impact.
I peak through windows to small bars on the way to my imaginary date with ladyboy Didi who escaped me in the hammering rain nights ago.
Bathed in neonlight an older falang has fallen asleep in his chair accompanied only by his young thai wife, who sits patiently and waits while she watches FightNight: SMACKDOWN, and I wonder how american wrestling has become such a big thing here.
It all happens in those few seconds it takes me to pass the Cafe Anyhting, that the falang also actually wakes up, only another few seconds from drowning in his noodlesoup if it hadnt been for his reluctance towards Isan food and a constant wet and white dream of another valuable core setting.
I enter the bar, my cologne has worn off to an acceptable level. I have hardly sat down and ordered some beers and smoke before Didi crawls out of the shadows and white a broad smile excuses for her poor english and disappereance the other night.
We sat up a date, and its yet up to me to explain, it isnt sex.