Wrackspurts

Ay... (en español)


I talk to myself less these days. In New York City in my early twenties, I evolved from your average pacer and occasional car-screamer to a shower-curser and honest to god street-mutterer. Habits I more recently traded in to become a man who sighs. Nasty habits, the whole lot, but what're you going to do? Estoy secuestrado por la susurra. And I hardly notice except when others comment on the fact. Habits change so imperceptibly over time. What's the line by Spicer? "I can no more remember what brought me here than bone answers bone in the arm."

Or shadow sees shadow.

I had a double espresso around four 'o clock but I'm fading. Getting nice and sleepy now. The keys feel heavy and stiff, and I'm letting my eyes droop. As soon as we're done here it's off to the astral plane.

Have I described my bedroom to you? It's a nook with a low roof that slants down sharply to one side. The queen bed fits the length of the space perfectly, and there's a skylight I keep open all the time. Only the smallest bugs slip in through the screen. Like dust particles, only more determined. Little wrackspurts.