my window-sill is wet. outside there is a rolling storm which woke me up from a sleep that knew it was not to be had.
my eyes are not yet fully open. i can feel the heat from the uncontrollable radiator rising to where i lay in an overhead loft-bed. my throat is parched and so dry that no amount of swallowing will ever feel like it could lubricate the desert shaft of my arid windpipes.
i climb down to the floor on my loft's ladder; it's not attached and remains as unstable, just as the first time i wobbled along it's short and altogether unsafe angular structure.
the tiles of my floor are covered with a layer of thin rugs purchased from IKEA and are still curiously cold to the touch. why have the rugs at all if not for the warmth upon the touch of feet?
it occurs to me that the vastly unequal temperature of my small room is not only frustrating, but also completely annoying. how is one supposed to be a lazy day-sleeper if one cannot sleep in?
and so in the less baker's-oven portion of my room, i sit waiting for day to break through the storm clouds, as dim lights the sky.
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this new year is starting out so strange and i can't make out it's tone. we'll give it some more time yet.
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tonight's homework:
develop that last roll of film, because you never know what's on it...perhaps a strange myriad of images that seem so strange to be stuck together in a thin plane of silver nitrate. and yet, without knowing it, of course this is the way it had to unfold.
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