a slice look at the ComEd bill and a realization that the cost of power will go up soon, not inflation but season. the paper wilts and then crushes, blows away with autumn wind from a secluded coffee table inside a semi-drafty apartment. the uneven floors and tilting walls still keep sound structure, but the elephants within keep wailing their trunks mouths speakers sound, creating drafts all their own. revised draft after revised draft keep piling on the table, covering anything of use from sight. the seasonal time change corrects the lapse from unknown pasts, when we didn't have to change (perceptually).
my notebook. my notebook for writing. my notebook for writing is open with yet another vast blank page facing ceiling through vacant eyes and head. ideas wax floors, but refuse to fall out of pen. the pen is too slow, too outdone by all forms of metaphor and irony, to use it as such in type would only deafen our understandings. so i type on a friday night with lowercase 'f' as a sore throat takes me from sleep to leftovers to a possible stand-in at watering-hole turned sleep-house. not due to any lack of purpose or passion, but mostly caution of circumstance. the writing went to fade out, to thank you, to collapse, in no particular order.
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