secret motel

The mailroom is closed. It's dark outside. My skin is prepared for rain. I test every emptiness for echoes. I'm in no hurry to get anywhere. Why is it that the hours between midnight and six a.m. require a detailed map for navigation? Are you familiar with that peculiar state of sadness that arrives when a favorite late-night radio program ends? The voice goes away, and you're still awake, your mind still firing from a hundred different agitations. Do you imagine dark suits prowling the walkway outside your window, dogs frightened into the trees? Get out of bed and eat something or drink something and try to quiet the carpet. Maybe chase another spider out of the bathroom.

Each new airline disaster is just another addition to fog patterns and imaginary architecture and the heat of internal landscapes. Last month's project took place at an avant-garde film festival in an abandoned multi-plex with so many self-determinant hallways that it took me three days to find my way out. If I return, I might bring Crispin Glover and my long-lost Sarah, give them flashlights and let them explore on their own, so long as they beware of the smoke and the shifting carpet.

You know what? All my thoughts keep missing the amplifier. They just fly out and die somewhere beyond my field of vision and hearsay. There's no good way to end this, is there? I'm going back to the hospital tonight, ask a pretty nurse if I can sit in the basement for a while, sit under a light bulb, rock back and forth and make sure my shadow does the same.