—Paolo Javier
For some reason I feel cheap today. I have the
reason I want to stay with. Friends are attractive
or whatever. Friday night I stayed home and slept.
I don’t seem to be able to. My philosophies are just
in this particular environment. It’s what I want to
stay with Sunday morning. Not here in church or
this particular environment. With crazies buzzing
every ten or fifteen minutes. Somebody with a
gun at the door. Maybe. I present myself to
whomever or whatever runs this place, 100%
melancholy. It is the best way to live? Besides
maintaining, keeping? I should be doing so now?
Isn’t that cute? It’s a stupid question. Stupid.
People banging on the box at all hours. And
I go to the trouble of attempting to separate
the sounds of pain or panic from the sounds
of joy or relief. Y ears ago I’d be in church
presenting myself to whomever or whatever
runs this place. Now I search all the drawers
for batteries. Things are run down. The check-
book lies naked next to a pair of broken earbuds.
The television only works on eccentricity. And
I’m in shock. Maybe I’m in shock. An incoherence
that everyone mistakes for unfriending. For being
a bastard. Not belonging to whomever or whatever.
I use this box of pain to separate myself. Or each
sound a car makes is a recording. I am the legacy
of these imaginings. My desire is the wastebasket
no one dares empty. A snapshot of the whatever.
All these nothings in a pile on a desk inside a heart-
beat. Beat-beat. Beat. Beat.
