There have been decades of failure contained within the flat recently. Drawing the curtains is a cause for celebration, and this keyboard has been left unhammered, the table legs unmarked, the housemates unruined.
I have plans. I coast.
Literary dreams of a coagulation, sedimentary ideas, several stories laced and bound, layered and bound. The talk will be of the debate, the neurotic documentary, the balding ambition, the stock novel response (eager eyes wait), the shrinking circles I dance in, the plasterboard friends I provoke, the influences stolen away in the breath of night.
I choose to sit elsewhere, away from the noise.
I do a lot of reading and always wake with a headache, foundational migraine but I catch it in due time. The Blue Notebooks achieves a repetition and I sleep when I am hungry, for the food costs. A rescinding pallor – that word again - heightens the nutrient drain of accessible health.
If only I had a blender and a girlfriend. For my health and well-being of course, I’m not plotting a death or anything.