Odd.
It is 4:18 in the a.m., and thus I feel compelled to treat this as Sunday morning rather than Saturday night.
Strange days, these are. Alcohol in all shapes, sizes, colors. A pinstriped suit–why? Disconcerting forgetfulness. It is colder here. The wind finds strength in the unblemished track above the lake.
Blue light, blue shirts. The whites of their eyes show as they pass you in the hallway. Expectant faces, learning faces. Puffed up with pride and bravado, waiting for the prick of reality to deflate their dreams.
The rambling jumbling entangled mess … seeps in. Finds a way in, a parasite, a home, and speaks through you, through us. Uses our lips. Or unlocks? You decide on the verb. Laughter, a spreading contagion. My jaw aches a bit afterward. I suppose it is something of a comforting feeling.
zZzzZzzz…
The library has this amazing soporific quality to it.
I find it more than a bit disconcerting to look back on hours just experienced and find them disheveled, out of order, easily condensed into small glass jars. It is as if someone else owns them; or worse yet, someone threw them away.