Something searches in me for nostalgia when my neighbor hangs up strings of colored Christmas bulbs from his gutters, but I come up empty handed... the seasons are changing in a place where I have no memories. When I leave work at 6 am, hollow-eyed and completely mummified in a knit scarf, I stare up at the enormous, sparkling tree that has been erected in the middle of the shopping center and forget what it feels like to be impressed by anything.
I can only be moved by the white noise that permeates my dreams.
cuticle slaughterer, object of child and dog stares, 3 pm cigarette kiss atop a torn couch cushion in Safehouse where I lied about how often I replace my shoes, post-sexist hiss taunt on Congress street, ceiling scurries, pretending I didn't remember your birthday, blaming my slippery, Piscean soul, in the words of Kanye West, am I that douchebag that never takes work off?
