I dreamed of contrition. There were dogs. And so of course I ran straight out into the damn…
…roadblock. What’s the point in cursing the blade when it’s this lycra of dying flesh that really kills you? But I curse anyway, I could have sworn I’d been asleep for days.
Across the street another quarantined light winks on. I wink back, and pour the insomniac bastard a drink. Somewhere along the line I’ve picked up a habit of narrating the mechanics of our misappropriated connectivity. We’ve never met. I couldn’t pick them out in a neighbour line up. They drive a black car, officer. I sit in the dark and drink their rum. Waiting. Trying not to breathe too much oxygen.
I can hear a baby crying. I wonder what it would be like. To be held in my resistance.
Loneliness is like a hunger. But there’s no fridge.
I pour the baby a drink and lay back into the sofa. I can hear rain on the roof again. Once I held a pillow to my head so tight I could hear my own heartbeat. It was Christmas Eve. I pretended it was the hooves of reindeer. I gave up on Santa a long time before, but I couldn’t let go of the sleigh.
My eyes hurt. I drink the baby’s rum.
There’s a coffee shop two roads down. They open at 6.30. I don’t need to talk. I just need to legitimise this bastard waking with caffeine. To sit among the commuters. My ears plugged with music. All the tables are painted with jazz icons. I listen to Metal. There aren’t any real stars, we have to make our own out of gold paper. The ones in the sky are just balls of gas.
Rain doesn’t feel the same at night. I pour the universe a drink and wait for it to burn out.