Particulate
I wake up at 6:30, to the blaring sounds of NPR. I changed my radio a week ago to talking voices for my dog. He needed to be locked in my room while a raging tornado of a house party happened. I was not there, on purpose. I've failed to change the station back, and now wake up to it. I turn it off. My returning swath of a hand finds the dog, and I wrap my arm under his belly and my hand reaches his flopped-ear.
We slept for another five minutes. The air is uncomfortable, made so even more by the stench of incense and because the other roommate is lazy and leaves all the windows open.
It has rained again, and the air is heavy. I walk to work, the same five blocks I walk every day for little pay. Nobody else wants me, and nobody else wants to hire me. I live currently off of a credit card, and the plasma center. Thursday will be my third visit - $30.
I am empty. Soon I will get bad news that my prospective apartment mate will not move with me but instead go to a job in Montana. Soon I will move home for a month in shame, perhaps finding a place back in Waterford and a grocery store job to go with it.
I cannot afford prints, so I avoid people who invite me to be in shows. On Friday, I took these pictures:
Soon the end of ten years of my life will dry up like dust. Soon 17 years will mean nothing, and I will put everything into storage. Soon I will be free, or trapped. Same thing, different word.
We slept for another five minutes. The air is uncomfortable, made so even more by the stench of incense and because the other roommate is lazy and leaves all the windows open.
It has rained again, and the air is heavy. I walk to work, the same five blocks I walk every day for little pay. Nobody else wants me, and nobody else wants to hire me. I live currently off of a credit card, and the plasma center. Thursday will be my third visit - $30.
I am empty. Soon I will get bad news that my prospective apartment mate will not move with me but instead go to a job in Montana. Soon I will move home for a month in shame, perhaps finding a place back in Waterford and a grocery store job to go with it.
I cannot afford prints, so I avoid people who invite me to be in shows. On Friday, I took these pictures:
Soon the end of ten years of my life will dry up like dust. Soon 17 years will mean nothing, and I will put everything into storage. Soon I will be free, or trapped. Same thing, different word.