spontaneous fluid redistribution trauma
I returned to Sarah's page since my previous entry today. She has now posted an entry concerning a dream she had in which she cut off her hands. I read the entry, then stared at her picture. Stared and stared.
Very quiet and low-key attendance in the office today. Of course I rode the whole motherfucker down because I had to close the mailroom. But the hallways were pleasantly quiet except for the echoes, and I started drinking isolation fluid. Because I figure I should be allowed to drink if I have to stay here long after everyone else has gone away. And I stared at Sarah's picture. Stared and stared.
The sky was a little lower the last time I checked. Make the tourists duck. So many of them out there. I wish it would hurry up and darken. Or rain. Or put the cartoons in Braille. I scramble all commications. For the darkness of the trunk. And the letters leaking from the streetcar. I swear the hills are gently rearranging themselves. Without the sweat of strangers after dark. And the quiet jingling in front of the vending machine. Take a walk along the abandoned shopping mall with the remains of your reflection. And the fog will gain new ground indoors if I let it. If I breathe properly. Drink something nice and burning and watch fog gently crowd its way up the escalators, along the aisles of department stores, obscure the donut store, smother or amplify sounds of the video arcade. Keep the bookstore open after eleven. Decorate the bathroom with vintage movie posters. And sip phone numbers from the sipping fountain in the custodian's alcove. The custodian has a skeleton key to all secret corridors. We sighted circus performers still aglow in the dead hours of morning. I misplaced fingerprints in the dusty bins of poorly-lit cellars beneath North Beach record stores. Trying to forget the imprint Sarah made in a park with fresh sunlight. And watching cars roll away into dusk. They forgot to turn on their lights. And there are so many twisting roads ahead. I said pick the wall for carnival music. Scatter boardgames in the distance of fields, forget about grey November shotgun blasts and empty bottles under the drivers seat. Said another light comes sailing across our sea if you have the patience of icebergs. I saw you early in the morning. Your skin never got tired. I keep the moths busy well into the night. I keep the stereo receiver hot and narcotics are welcome in my carpet. There goes another bus up into the Avenues. Remember when I used to walk the hills and point out to where I thought the ocean stopped and started. Surrender myself to lp's and why is one a.m. coated with dust? I know better than to invite my reflection into the mirror. I think the mildew is making the spiders sick or drunk. I think silence and isolation are making me sick and smaller in a really big way.
The weekend opens wide. And there's no way out. There's no way out.