Stand by.
The window is partially open and I hear half sounds.
Birdsong echoes, a motorcycle idles at a red light, children squawking, unintelligible words, natural laughter, beer bottles clink into faroff trash cans, a steering wheel whines.
Reverberations weave together as though a net spun to shield, to keep me solid and alive inside the synonyms. A gossamer wall stitched with sidewalk heat, blowing seeds, leaves of grass. Late afternoons, my eyes half-open, my mind set at a righteous, easy frequency.
The only fear is to fall asleep and wake up in pitch black. To forget where I am, to forget who I am. Where shapes are visually buzzing and unfamiliar upon rising. Where the unknown equals the possibility of aggression.
(Stand by.)
An overhead fan dances with the ceiling light, scripts rewritten in overwrought scenes, camera angles to accentuate tension, beads of sweat build into a flood and, ultimately, exultation. Maybe it’s better than the weak-kneed movies I made in my memories:
The pokiest thrillseeker alive neglects to televise or commercialize any part of his imminent feat — to sleep straight into the heart of the uptown evening and climb out of the darkness. Bold, motionless moves for the disheveled wizards who will never let go of their classic rock presets. Action.