Reading, cereal and skin.

Gorilla Munch. Rice milk. Sliced mangoes. A red couch, mismatched pillows, and a hardcover copy of Miranda July's "No one belongs here more than you." Waiting for morning. In the background, dog eared paperbacks (Southern females writers, Baldwin, Murakami, Munro, Woolf, Safran-Foer, Zadie, Eco) piled up to the shoulders, The lead singer from a thousand times yes singing on how her heart is in Atlanta. *I could sleep in with her voice for moons at a time* A to-do list involving flights to L.A, a book of ethics, a vinyl needle, clients to create wellness plans for, a deep v wheel set, worthwhile larks and a family therapy project better saved for days after Thanksgiving. There's a second person narrative coming out from the floorboards: "pay for your health plan," "commit to your sleep," " finish the 3 projects under your sofa," "return the calls from those who have been waiting for months to hear back from you" How do you listen to the parts in the corners? A few cars driving through the back alley with occasional late night winter transients wrapped in tattered blankets and newspapers walking along the pavement whispering through the windowsills that the center of the bone is where all the content is. It's past two thirty in the morning and I want nothing more than to close my eyes only to open them to a steampunk aesthetic and an antique skeleton key from a toolbox which fixes a broken sidemirror to a sleek red car. The owner of the car, sleepy eyed, is curious as to why both of her hands are holding tiny aluminum, copper, and bronze cranks and gears.