It is 8pm on a Sunday. It is so quiet. All the neighbors lights are off and no one seems to be stirring. I cannot see into their Mungo boxes. A child cries, a dog barks, no cars are driving past. I want so desperately to make noise. To take up space. To exist, to be. I do not wish to be in this place, but I exist here. Does anyone else? Life is happening to everyone. All around, people live in these so-called “homes”, they eat and sleep–a child cries again. Maybe a bird. There are hardly any stars tonight. It’s cloudy, it is cold. The cold air feels nice but even your breathing seems too loud for this peaceful night. Retreat. Retreat towards an illusion of comfort. Pray that you find comfort. Retreat to sleep. Wishful for sweet dreams, forethoughtful of what tomorrow holds, goodnight.
Goonight.
Sawblades In Your Walkman
effervescing with muchness
Sawblades In Your Walkman 