june 10th, 2023


you love the thought of a room that is only a room, & none of the stupid things are there

you reside in a room that is only a room, on the second story, with a wooden floor & a stuffy warmness, golden stillness, & dusty seclusion. there are dust particles in the sunbeams. there is a mattress in the corner. none of the things from "elsewhere" are there, & the doorway is a sieve that takes them from your mind so they can't follow you in. outside there can be nothing but the odd pedestrian who advances down the sidewalk in the blinding goldenness of the afternoon sun. nevermind what the world is like: seen through that window, the whole thing is at once blinding, hot, & as invitingly dull as a laundromat or a furniture store. a filmic grain is everywhere all at once & brushing against your skin always

there is someone whose kindness is like the creaking of an unvarnished wooden floor

no one has ever written about the floor. it is only itself

as it happens, one day you are abducted from the reasonable world &, upon returning to it a decade later, find that you no longer know how to relate to their kindness