The bird of breath has fled its cage I think, leaning forward on the rocking chair coughing, seeing stars towards the edge of the precipice. It’s an ordinary night, all sirens and storms and drizzly little deaths sprawled across the scenery, the wheeze in the machinery sounding louder than the passing train. The gutters fizzle with deadfall and star spotted wishes. The streets sing with tires and declarative engines, our mystery firmly rooted in the filters and the findings, the amplified environment lit with Dopplering water. The shape of witness and the world that fills it.
The rooms are always ringing, sometimes with silence, sometimes with sadness. It varies by the hour. The surety of shelter so conditional when the weather puts its weight to the wheel. The story ever ready to take a left turn. A freeze, a flood, an odd sort of feeling to the colors of the sky. Coin toss physics decided by gust or gale, misread significance as destiny dishes it out with both fists. A song comes on and you can feel the room turn. A few short words you can’t quite hear over the bathroom fan. That Barton Fink feeling when staring down the drain.
It’s soft momentarily, the water steaming, the shower effortless and persistent. Routine and ritual in a small noisy room, the comfort of familiar ablutions and the aspect of ten thousand actions escaping through the plumbing. I soap up, I spray and scrub, I rinse. I shave my throat then my head, moving left to right and front to back. Then the toweling off and dressing the latest wound, there is the ambience of fogged mirrors and another song, the crawling rumor of the living in stray webs and small heaps. This eye wide, then another opened door.
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