The night scratches at the screen, brittle branches and sullen bones. A glass of ice water practices the condescension of condensation, droplets rolling down the outside of the rim. The room awash with electric light and recorded music. A weary weight claims the air. Outside a chill wind blows. Outside the world continues.
The day left in a cluttered tangle, knotted clouds and flustered colors, the sun haloed in the mottled horizon. An icy wind ran wild over yard and fence, a claim made of time and distance. Traffic rushed and staggered, motive existing only in direction. The roads shape our days as rivers and mountains once shaped our civilizations. Our culture built upon the shores of appetite, beneath the purple shadows of majestic lies.
I untie my shoes. I take off my watch, leaving it carelessly on some shelf. I clear my throat, I drink some water. I lean into these native aches, these empty habits. Outside to inside, then outside again. Funny little circles run around and around. Pretty little flowers and pleasant little songs.