Fishing in Beirut

When Frank left, Berlin had put one thought in his head: freedom soars over all. Then came Chicago, came Sevilla, and freedom started drifting. If he craned around his neck, and stared back into the past, the bus out of Berlin was when the bubble burst.
That soup stain on his trousers is not going away. Its orange has faded a dull and mucky brown, and it looks unsightly if you walk down rue de Rennes. That’s what Frank is doing, this chill December weekend. There are girls with dainty black gloves and precision perfect make-up. There are grown men who could best be described as boys, and some of them with dainty black gloves also. Stylish beige attire abounds, saliva lips of shoppers like aroused blood dogs. Frank is uncomfortable in this. Nauseated.
He reaches Montparnasse and collapses to the ground. He hasn’t eaten in two days, because he wanted to test his strength. He gurgles and spits, and there’s a tingling in the limbs. It’s warm, fuzzy – tiny internal dots of rhythmical motion. Frank is on the ground beside a congealed chewing gum.
A security guard from a lingerie boutique helps him up. He is fixing his collar for him when Frank sags scarily. He is only standing now because of this man.
All around there are people. All around, too much is going on. Voices from everywhere, with a sharpness to the afternoon air. Frank is assisted to a bench by his benefactor. Wood meets bone and tissue as he slumps. The man is enquiring after his present awareness, but Frank can’t remember the French he knows. His whole face is lolling.
What do you do when you’re not you, and your consciousness is refusing to acknowledge it? When the world is strong and cruel, your soul has gone astray, and there is no sense of comfort inside your unknown skin. Where begins the healing course of action?