If you could have spoken, what would you have said? The couch sticks to my skin and peels a layer off of me when I stand. The air doesn’t move out of the way when you walk around, and piles and piles of trash add up. No one ever takes it out. And sometimes there’s a hole between then and now. The holes in the ceiling let nothing in.
There’s a free and fleeting moment that’s bigger than us both. It stands not between or around but above, it’s own living, breathing reasoning.
We took a camera and with it painted our world. It took nothing, instead fed it some exterior perspective. I never figured out what the eyes that tumbled down the bumpy hill, spinning, gave to the animals that followed them around.
I’m awake in the places that one sleeps, and asleep where others are awake. Salty sweat pressed into cotton billows. There’s noises in the walls, the pushpins spear the creatures that never come out til night. It’s irregular, it’s regular, it’s a flat note that can’t get better.
