23 Feb 2011

February 23, 2011

I woke up late this morning. I had a dream that turned like pages of a book. There was an inferno and the firemen were in tin foil uniforms and they were telling me it was fine, I was fine, everything was going to be fine.

I remember thinking: “This isn’t just a fire. This is an inferno.”

My laptop ran out of batteries at Starbucks because I forgot to bring my charger home last night. I wrote by hand and listened to James Blake. This woman at the table next to me set her purse on the chair across from mine and kept digging through it. She’d pick it up, rummage, set it back down. I pretended not to notice.

I used to go to Starbucks and write on the napkins. I wrote things I was afraid to admit. The ink would bleed through the layers and make copies of what I’d said. When I was done I’d throw the napkin away and leave.

At lunch we were talking about food and ethics. We wondered if hunting made us more human or more animal. We couldn’t help but talk about the way we’d grown up.

I wonder if being lonely doesn’t have so much to do with lack of people as lack of time. Maybe not, though.

 

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