Another jerking motion, rubbing hands, foot stomp. Forty seven blinks, one wink, just to see if it’s only the one eye. Result-a tiny slip towards crazy. I count shed dog hair, white on white carpet fibers, tiny touches of slate, flecks of brown. Persian rug stolen (Iran, most likely) from the down the street yard sale, stretching then bunching near the sofa where I sit, exhausted angry insanity creeping like chemical burns up my neck, over my face.

Someone in the bedroom shifts, bed frame creak, flat board popping and I want popcorn, but three-in-the-morning cravings should never be trusted. He talks in his sleep, wall muffled angry syllables.

I want it too.

Two hundred fifty five seconds later, the lights flicker.

Inverted ghosts slither through, blurry trails, tail like and misunderstood. They never mean you harm, but you couldn’t lie still in the bedroom where the two of you recognize each other. In the morning she will help figure it out. Like when I picked up the guitar; when the strings stretched and made sweetly muted muffled twangs.

Triple blink then pulling up a crumpled, inside out, backwards sheet. Shadow puppets pastime but my fingers are under cotton. It never makes sense until it does.

Slower now, fighting for darkness like fighting an urge to scream. The randomness of language. Someone stand in for me.

About fenster

There are some who call me, Tim?

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