The lamps are helium-filled balloons resting against the ceiling. Their light is a dim yellow that won’t burn my eyes like those fluorescent cylindrical bulbs hovering over my cubical. The house is like a weather system with different dynamics all through it. I’m out back, in a strangely controlled manner, chopping a tree down and it doesn’t matter that she has vanished. I never felt so lonely as I did in her company.
I need a weapon. You all have weapons. The set list for this evening’s show is typed but typed imperfectly with the ink slightly smudged and barely offline because I threw the typewriter against the wall in frustration. Beneath the control is a greasy mess of smoke and grime. It’s a struggle to sweep it away and place this book next to that one. I want to live a stylized version of this. Clean and simple with a lot of blue and very little dust.
