Every day has been something new that stretches late. Dawn has been the time I put my head to the pillow for sleep, quarter past the sun has begun to come up. I’m buried in this thing then that thing. It’s good and I wonder where my phone-call is. There’s a boy in the shower and I wonder if I’m going to do anything about him. Cult of personality and we had sandwiches for breakfast at four in the afternoon because we’d been up watching Emma Thompson swan ravishingly through Much Ado About Nothing.
I breathe and the story continues. Backward, last night was Patti‘s birthday, the night before that was Tilly’s. Sitting on a ball at the Treehouse, eating green icing from a giant glass measuring cup and harmlessly flirting with old friends. Wednesday was Kareoke at the Veterans Hall, spending time with Ray alone for once and Tuesday I’m not even sure I remember, except I know I walked home from Christopher‘s place, a bedraggled leftover from Monday night Korean Movies.
The days go back like that until the flatline day I got off the plane. It’s an obvious try to pick up the telephone and connect the wires between me and the rest of the world. It’s been so long that I feel like I’ve forgotten the number and I know that’s terribly wrong for me. Horror movie music inching under my door like a flat killer realization, that’s what that is. Walking into a basement with only a flickering flashlight, the spark-plug smashing the car window moment of let’s Split Up.
The window didn’t give me light today. The city’s closed against it, our ceiling of cloud is endless. Ice-skating will be the brightest place in the past twenty-four hours. The inside of my eyes are thinking of a bed underneath a star of lights. Ask me over or come yourself. You knew where I was living before anyone yet you’ve never visited. The number’s been the same, electric tattoo easy. Consider this an invitation.