On my first night in here:
And so I'm listening to The Suburbs in the summer again, because this is how it feels when the room is empty and smells of carpet cleaner. But what are you doing sitting in the center of the floor alone? they could ask. I'm writing, I'll lie, and if you aren't you could think about it. I live on the second floor and I haven't been down in a day and a half, as if I live pacing a stage or inside of an ant farm or on some future planet with high-rises to its core. I'm doing nothing and learning all the things you learn eavesdropping, that the dog next door only knows commands in French, that Kara is explaining who Phillip Glass is as she's hooking up all the audio cables (FR, FL, RL, RR, all on golden gossamer wiring that looks like the nineteen-fifties). I'm considering views, not planning ahead much beyond this week point five.
And my first night sleeping here:
Two now, I feel embarassingly like a child counting down, developing an obsessive tic like I'm comsumating something no one knows exists, like I'm going to be lying facedown and turning around and seeing you and hastening my death a little each time. For times when everything seems meaningful (what does it say about you that I read the first sentence and jumped to the end to ruin the inevitable sarcastic twist?), for times when I can't stop writing about writing, can't stop writing about can't stop waiting, the one in the form of the other over and over til I don't want to think about it. Sometimes like I'm living in syrup everything swoops in so heavy, and I don't know if we're down or drowned.