Speckled carpet, shorn of dust, clean parallels, no sex anymore.
That is what it is all about, not thinking about what I just said, not saying what I just thought.
An organisation of belongings: compartments and genres and type. The thing of a thing is the decisive factor, its inherency.
People are a conversation, have been a conversation, and I like to give them more credit than they are usually burdened with. If the result is a loss, then so be it. I am constantly writing when I should be eating, eating when I should be working, working when I should be sleeping, sleeping when I should be eating.
Where do I find the time to read?
The bed is still unmade, and I see the splinters of wood jutting from the mattresses soft underbelly. Outside, the sheets play in the insistent warmth of an oncoming season.
I can find things with the drawers shut. I lose things when they are open. The piles of newspapers and bank statements and utility bills only attract their own type, but the vacuum cleaner is filling and the dust is pouring through the open window to somewhere else.
He can’t work me out, but you can. With your infectious dominant generosity - the nicest control I have experienced – I feel humble and stupid and cannot help thinking that the summer fits you, wrapping its skies around you like a blanket, lashing down your health and hope with a zealous horizon.
I coming home, arriving home, which is to say I have tidied my room and sat down.