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December
11, 2005. Phone is dead and it's so quiet in this early morning sleep slept pillow soft and all alone alone alone it rings the chime of alarm I set it and I hit the snooze and the little digital bells still chime and swing, pixellated and sweet and small and yellow in the phone on the screen in the phone. Good sleep not deprived by talk and by pushing the limits of my head and the math of code and arc of storyline pushing me outside the grid taking cues from the real life and plugging them in, plunk plunk plunk until the daylight starts to hit the blinds that moment after dark and then grey and then blue and then blue and then blue and then blue I miss the push, the rush, the over. Car and ride and lean over unlock the lock he smiles I get in we ride and we talk before we have to talk and I am smiling and reserving my energy there is the flurry of snow and the movement of traffic green light and then express curving along, sweeping in dusty plastic and metal to a soft couch and a script and a mechanical pencil and a London Shop accent and cursing the man visited by Marley chains rattle in our heads and the words are so classic we read and we talk and then the ride home we talk too much more. Phone is dead and it's so quiet in this early evening awake and dinner and the season is upon us all I am stepped outside steeped in the cold, the gristle of salt and ice ground under bootsoles and scarf knotted tight I am solo, balancing on each foot, one in front of the other. Salsa mole salsa crema tip jar neon sign out into the night nourished and supplied snow is no match for cilantro for arroz for horchata for plastic bag tied napkin wrapped tomato slice styrofoam container. Never will get the hang of this this snooze alarm little yellow bell morning well rested but so quiet, so unpushed, no arc, no storyline, no code to decipher. go
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