31 October 2010

My work shirt is especially cold on the shoulder of the sleeve where I have wiped the running phlegm from my nose repeatedly. In movies, tears make a woman’s face sort of, shine.

I am surrounded by all of my things in my room. That is, they’ve got me surrounded.

My body appears, to someone, as a collection of bits. He or she waters them from the higher up place where he or she must is be.

When it is I who is crying, I find that I must comfort those who witness me. Just tears, only tears, I’m okay, just tears, only tears, etc.

I can press my naked hand into the back of a naked man and feel nothing. This is the magic trick of isolation.

Many things that I own are sharp. Good.

I am in agony in location A. I think about location B, and how I will remain in agony there. I mill about.

Everybody hangs up the phone. Everybody goes home.