He wakes up. He is not getting enough sleep. He is going to start doing bikram yoga because of a woman that he met but didn’t really meet but spoke to on the phone but then he hadn’t made it clear that he was still married even though he had said he was separated and he thought that there was a difference between that word and divorced but apparently there wasn’t. September it is then, he thought, when life really begins if it can be said to ever have stopped. He tweets some things he thinks are amusing and they all get stored in the Library of Congress because all tweet get stored in The Library of Congress. He finishes a Philip K. Dick novel. He loves Philip K. Dick even though he seems to have been a number one asshole. He is getting skinny and toned and he is eating lots of nuts and dried berries and he has never felt healthier or more alone. He wants to stop drinking coffee. He wants to stop being a hypocrite. It took him far too long to find out how to spell hypocrite. So much for a University Education. The nights are hot and the days are even hotter. The summer is going to be a strange one and the cherry blossoms are getting ready to explode out of their buds this time for the 100th Anniversary of the gifting of the Cherry Blossoms by the Japanese to the Americans. He walks in the warm of the dark of the night and then collapses into bed. A chicken is slowly rotting in his fridge but he does not have the energy to cook it. Tomorrow he will cook it but not today. He sleeps.
The Sleepcoat League
Armchair anthropologist, sometime scribe, freelance philosopher, amateur artist, part-time poet, musical maven, alliteration aficionado. View all posts by The Sleepcoat League