At this moment

At this moment the lights flutter slowly into cycle across the empty ceiling, their shivering captured in the frail glass cylinder is tangible enough to rattle the dust on my table, settled into waxy oils, and my empty chair casts a dark shadow under the table on the worn terrazzo. I was in bed. I didnt see people, only their names. I had given up on neighbours, populations. Sorting through all of the names, fearing the numbers in the addresses, the fixity of their existence in the world, made me want my room to be empty enough to run away from. I didnt want it to fit me. It couldnt anyway, so I wouldnt let it try. At this moment my station was empty, I was absent from the whole world. I couldnt even see myself, my legs, my chest, my room, my day. I saw nothing. I felt the sheets whose cold open window dew declared a life apart, nobody would let me live this way, awake in the cold, as the fabric dried for a twinkling, and turned warm and pasty with my sweat. My old breath filled the cavern of pillows. I only see the morning in bits. I didnt try to live straight through them. They belonged in different places. They might be happening at the same time all around the city. I see bits as they happen. I need to be able to know when they will happen, what they will do to everything else in radiating spheres pushing things lightly out of place. I would never notice but I see the voids in the dust, the crescents of emptiness around cups and jars, fingerprints in the sand. I need to drop each bit in the sequence that makes something that moves forward. I need to know the cause and effect of every bit of dust that gets caught in my hair, which breath it was carried on and what desire flushed it out of my lungs with such gravity. If it happened yesterday I wouldnt know it right now. It was a separate compartment. If it happens this afternoon I want to happen with it. I need to be sure before I fall out of bed into this wide open empty day. Some one morning I will run through it all in order.

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