#203

his eyes scan the room, looking for something to strike inspiration. finger-picking a light brown guitar with the typical darker brown trim, a musician sings about the death of his best friend. he wonders briefly if how many lyrics are autobiographical. a girl in the corner, attentive through the whole performance, begins to fidget. leading into the second chorus, she takes a quick swipe at her eye, squirms out of her seat and heads towards the bathroom.
a worker with dyed black hair comes from the back room with his jacket. Black Hair Skinny Jeans looks like he's in quite a rush- to a date, maybe with a girl, a guitar, or a courtroom. the couple in the corner smile at each other over the tops of steaming mocha, exchanging looks that can only mean their love is one that "no one else would understand".
he takes out his notebook and pretends to write, wondering if anyone is watching him back.

#202

every day for a week now, he'd watched her ride her bike to the house across the street. across the street, one over. the gray stone one to the left with the high arched doorways and shuttered windows. sundress floating in the breeze, pale ankles pointing and flexing with the rotation of the pedals. every day, bright shorts peeking out where her skirt flew too high and he wondered if that was just for the bike ride or if they were ever-present. mowing the yard, drinking smoothies on a coffee shop patio.
the neighbors were on vacation, but if they wanted to keep it a secret, they shouldn't have hired such an intriguing house-sitter.
he didn't know how much time was left, how long their cruise, flight, visit would last. already he was running out of ideas for ways to talk to her. leave an african violet on the doorstep? she seemed like the kind of girl who would like that, the mystery of it, a plant that is watered from the bottom up.

seventy

He coughed, near a century of breathing more smoke than wisdom, and drinking more gin than joy. "Everyone gets mad when you show them the gun but never fire it. I've found that, in the beginning, it's best not to bring it up at all."

sixtynine (re:#201)

She died today, and I wasn't there to hold her hand and I don't know if anyone was. All I had was the night-time walk through the suburbs in February that dried out my throat and my eyes and my heart.

There's nothing as desolate as the middle class at midnight.

Tiny rocks crunched under my sneakers and the hood of my jacket barely fit over my headphones and I'm talking to myself. It's like praying when you know there's no one listening.

And I'm telling myself some things that are true, and some things that are lies, and some things I can't tell apart. And I'm a plot desperately in search of some characters.

#201

Last night I dreamt of my father. Grass was growing already through his lifeless lips. My mother was all sticks and bones. The kind of thin you can feel in your hands when your fingertips touch her picture.
I am in a haze.
I have no mother or father and this is not something that comes suddenly. It sneaks its way through weeks so you feel surprised when it comes, but it has been there all along. Today I am merely a character in search of a plot.

sixtyeight

The cigarette burned to the filter, like a forgotten candle burns to the candlestick and then the house burns down to the foundation. He chuckled as he became acutely aware of the exposition; nicotine takes all the free will out of slow suicide.

sixtyseven

"how do you feel?"

"i don't."

But, I guess the best way to explain it is that it's like gazing upon the monolith in 2001 (the movie, not the year). Everything seems to make sense somehow, but you don't understand it, and you don't like it.

And, of course, it's full of stars, just like everything is.