n: vb: the spice of imagination
Alastair and I tried to see Sweeney Todd yesterday. We failed completely, but not after we braved the inside of a shopping mall. What a spectacle! The traffic alone… Surfacing was obviously a mistake. We should have stayed hiding, like I did today, processing photographs and listening to bad-ass Russian hip-hop thick with accordion.
Let me breathe. Let my breath stream past my throat and fill my heart and lungs. I have a graveyard shift Saturday night, then my regular Sunday night shift. I’m re-reading an article on neuromarketing and looking to maybe help edit the Devil’s Chord wikipedia page, trying to stay awake, but it’s not working. Already my body is shutting down around the edges, trying to put me to sleep. Dreaming has been fickle this week, so the chance to collapse without a morning feels too good to be true, but also like a trap. My alarm clock waiting in the stair-well, a knife in hand, shaving seconds off my heart, like the phone refusing to answer up the names and voices I want to hear.