I sat naked, after the dream. I dream a lot these days. Chekhov before bedtime.
The alarm woke me, and I rose from a quarry where I was sitting next to a sultry-eyed girl beneath a frame of burnt timber. Honeysuckle was entwined with the joints of the structure and the stars were just beyond, out of reach.
(I am, of course, therefore unable to contain any kind of personal inclination towards others that isn't mutually exclusive or full of spelling mistakes, it's all or nothing, the stark resonance echoing like timbres from a tomb, relationships laid bare and an essential loneliness, essential because reduced and necessary.)
I stumbled, covers wrapped, and experienced a falling away of consciousness into something else, but falling is perhaps wrong and right because something fell but I rose. There was nothing beneath. I reached up, exhausted, to meet the day. One of us wasn’t ready and I was still naked, hoping for post.
Sitting and eating breakfast, another simple meal for another simple morning. There is a staleness about the flat, I have not been here for three days, a staleness of time. The food was finished, a shower was approached… the fallacies of routine! Little lies written upon our foreheads in biro. Yawning through and stretching out, the plans formed, the lines of enquiry spreading across the city, a pulse into hours ahead.
I returned to the living room. I looked to the kitchen and saw boiling water flowing over the sides of the pan and onto the floor, the smell of burnt plastic (unattended hob, again) and still no fucking post. I turned on the television and I began to cry at the complicated realities of television news. I looked down and was still naked.
It is more difficult at some times, than it is at others, to justify a return to bed.