Night Comes In, Crawling

I don’t know who these people are, have absolutely no idea what they’re saying. Every day, every day, every day some fresh confusion.

Fog, I guess, a gray shroud I hunch my way under and through. These weird, fuzzed lights emerging, gauzy red and yellow blobs blooming above me. A sinking plane emerges, the underbelly, apparitional and floating through the clouds, coming down.

Equilibrium is never going to be my thing. Every moment I inhabit seems to be a time bomb.

I hear dripping from somewhere, and the sound of a television in a dark room, the loneliest sound on the planet. I remember being wide awake in the middle of the night, holed up in a bedroom and listening to a television on the other side of the house, the voices and canned laughter and applause carrying, sound creeping down the hallway and through walls, an absolutely unique sound pulled from the sky above the house, those voices and images drifting all night in the darkness, looking for entry.

I have no idea how a television works. If I actually try to think about it in any kind of hard and concentrated way I can still convince myself that I’m dreaming this entire life, this room, these books, the additional miraculous puzzle of phonograph records, the wonder of this pen, these ink trails and odd symbols representing some inexplicably agreed upon meaning. All of it –every last thing I can see and hear and touch and remember– nothing more than the confused dream of a fat gob of matter lost in a muddy puddle somewhere.