Up til midnight, up again always someplace between 2-3 a.m. . . My father was always like that too. At 2:30 a.m., there are, miles apart, always at least two 'depressed' people probably awake and with each other somewhere in one another's business.
Then the midafternoon slump, kerplop. If there’s a bed nearby, get outa my way. I “went to the sandwich shop” today, i.e. two pillows on either side of the head to block out the day for an hour. When I opened my eyes, this was staring at me. Carefully balanced near the bed on a chair.
.
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"exoforce guy"
.
.
.
[I take it out to the living room and returned it to its owner.]
Did you leave this in my room?, I ask.
Yes, says Ears. To protect you while you slept—cuz your eyes are closed when you sleep ya know.
Yeah, I know. (weepy)
I am becoming more certain every day that there are things that language cannot represent. I wouldn’t even call these things ‘feelings’, more like big cracks in a person through which you could look and get flashing glimpses of something too enormous for anyone to ever see the whole of it. To represent those things, we’re forced into silence, or touch, or maybe writing music that you’d play if you could and if it already existed.
Like this. John Coltrane – Stardust
(Can anyone think of anything else, cuz I’m thinking I could use a longer list of options comin’ up. Ya know?)
