lost in saturday
Outside, people are holding hands and drinking sunlight. They eat in restaurants and drive cars and meet new people. They advance in their chosen careers and live like adults.
Inside, I fortify secret motel with brandy and wine, manuscripts of poetry and short fiction in various stages of incompletion, and listen to Track Star's thirty-minute noise loop. I love my imaginary landscapes. I think I will continue to inhabit them, even after I am dead.