sixty-eight : this mess we’re in
she’s not alone here, but her voice is. it echoes in the room, down the hall, out the door and into the street. he stands by the window, always looking out into the green. it’s cool outside and dew gathers in the lush garden, along the length of each leaf, every petal. inside it is dry and empty. dust floats in the air, the motes visible in the bright light that filters through the glass. she speaks again but he doesn’t turn. the sound is lost. she wonders if she spoke at all. dust gathers, rises, settles. her lungs feel heavy.
listened to this mess we’re in by pj harvey & thom yorke while writing tonight. i’m double tired, if tiredness can have multiples. tomorrow is going to be a long day—9 hours worth of work plus driving has to fit into 8 hours. something tells me i won’t be having a lunch break. i should be in bed already, but i haven’t been home long and the last thing i want to do is go to sleep right away. this is turning into a diary entry. oops. thanks for reading, my readerly readers.
