Saturday, November 08, 2003

Staring at the smeared insignia of the stain of the cockroach on the textured wall near the ceiling, my cigaret tilts in its tray and draws my attention. This day, like so many other days, looking toward the screen, between glances, tracking the stain, lighting another smoke, scratching myself, returning to the semblance of layers of paper on a desk. Wading through it. An electrical current supports my intrusions into this wave as it washes over me.

Returning to relative health as the effects of the preceding evening's alcohol leaves me. Engulfing glasses of water from the tap now a new fire approaches. Waterproof.

Back at the stain, still in the same place, back to the windows. Proofing pages and documents in disorderly ordinal ordinary dormancy. Tackling an interior arrangement of errors. My good deed for today that nobody else notices. Making something out of nothing and returning to nothing. Linear illusions. Always going back over it.

Back to the sink for water and a reprieve from the uniformity of text and table. A new perspective. The dirty washcloth and a pile of days-old dishes. The dim kitchen light strikes me as being insufficient. I drink again the clear liquid.

I take up my cigaret, a kind of smoking pen swirling a fading script on the clouded air of this tiny apartment, control it. I write my name on the cloud and the tip glows brighter, ashes fall to the floor and appear on my clothing, glance at the clock on the wall. The wave of descending hours falls on me and I realize my moments are dwindling, the last few sparks before returning to the working world that churns sustenance.

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