morning reveries

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 image beneath a frame of burnt timber. honeysuckle was entwined with the joints of the structure and the stars were just beyond, out of reach.

(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 reached up, exhausted, to meet the day. i wasn’t ready and i was still naked, hoping for post.

the food was finished, a shower was approached–the fallacies of routine! little lies written upon our foreheads in italics. 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, again) and still no fucking post. i turned on the television and i began to cry at the complicated realities of television news.

it is more difficult at some times, than it is at others, to justify a return to bed.

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