I make my way from Piccadilly Circus down towards Embankment.
I speak to Mr. Fox.
People think I’m talking to myself.
Think I’m one of those crazy people who talk to themselves.
But I’m not.
I’m talking to Mr. Fox.
Aka Francis Ford Coppola.
Or Mr. C.
But I call him Mr. Fox.
Sometimes I’m confused myself, cuz I should be talking to Jesus.
I should be praying to Jesus.
I should be praying to God.
But instead I’m talking to Mr. Fox.
As if he is God.
He is the king.
But he’s not The King of Kings.
He is the king of cinema.
But he’s not the Sovereign King of The Universe.
I start to tell people I pass in the street.
He’s King of Kings.
I get more crazy looks.
He’s King of Kings, I say louder.
I’m feeling good.
I bounce down the street towards Embankment.
He’s Lord of Lords and King of Kings!
It’s getting colder.
All I’ve got is a shirt on top of a t-shirt, the light blue jeans they gave me at the prison, and my trainers.
It’s starting to rain a bit, too.
I’m homeless, Mr. Fox.
What the fuk am I gonna do?
It’s that line from Social Cleansing, the short film my brother directed and I acted in with Idris.
He’s dead, Spider. What am I gonna do?
Whoever is dead, is dead, my friend.
What the fuk am I gonna do?!