Wednesday, August 19, 2009

standing on things meant for sitting

A night of not knowing where you are or even that you are. You tumble around like an ambitionless atom, striking things emptily. You're so many centuries deep in light that everything is scorched to absolute black.


A ruinously bad bladder is a curse when you're in your own room and perplexed by direction, scraping against walls and standing on things meant for sitting.


The dogs look at you with heads cocked. Their x-ray eyes examine whether or not you've finally gone insane, the way they always knew you would.

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