Self and reality. Symbol and language. Myth and image. Memory and consciousness.
Dream and unreality: locus communis.

Thursday, January 30, 2014

Our Hour

Writing by feeble light tonight— a temporary rearrangement of sleeping quarters forces me to share the guest room—and I am used to falling asleep with a book, a fan, myself slowly fading. Through half closed blinds now I watch the blackness of the neighborhood settle against the lingering houses with random Christmas decorations still. Sleep evades me tonight.
Earlier. While sharing a nap. Every so often, through our hour together, Brendan softly fingertips the curve of my jaw or the bridge of my nose or the outline of my brow— confirming in his sleep that I remain lying beside him.
28/ a castoff shirt tossed on the side of the bed, shoes slumped against each other, an opening book, the neighbor’s barking dogs circling their yard, a phone vibrating against a table across the room, the clock shifting numbers across its face —broken silences

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