Home at the End of the World
I forgot to close the blinds last night.
This morning I awoke to a bed ablaze. Usually sunrise happens quickly, it's dark, then the next second the sun is throwing painfully bright spangles around corners and into sleeping eyes.
But this morning at sunrise, I woke to a bed on fire with red and gold.
It's dry season and a red sunrise means a hot day. Indeed, it's not even seven o'clock and already the pavement is radiating heat upward, and light reflects off chrome and mica and white like pain.
When it's hot like this, I roll over to the unslept side of the white sheets, in any other place or time, the cotton would be cool against the skin. The books splayed there, like cats bodies in their abandon, dig with their sharp corners and fine edges. Read me, read me.
The man who sells bread cycles beneath the window, even his short, clipped tones bleached by the sun and the heat before it's really even begun, "Bánh mì! Bánh mì!"
A fine line of sweat marks my hairline like a crown. It's time to make coffee.
This morning I awoke to a bed ablaze. Usually sunrise happens quickly, it's dark, then the next second the sun is throwing painfully bright spangles around corners and into sleeping eyes.
But this morning at sunrise, I woke to a bed on fire with red and gold.
It's dry season and a red sunrise means a hot day. Indeed, it's not even seven o'clock and already the pavement is radiating heat upward, and light reflects off chrome and mica and white like pain.
When it's hot like this, I roll over to the unslept side of the white sheets, in any other place or time, the cotton would be cool against the skin. The books splayed there, like cats bodies in their abandon, dig with their sharp corners and fine edges. Read me, read me.
The man who sells bread cycles beneath the window, even his short, clipped tones bleached by the sun and the heat before it's really even begun, "Bánh mì! Bánh mì!"
A fine line of sweat marks my hairline like a crown. It's time to make coffee.