I have been here
I have been here for days. I see the sunshine passing by on the wood floor in the front room. In the morning the white sunlight shows the dust in the corners, hanging at the top of the walls, and beneath the table, the arm chair, and the bed. It casts shadows. I feel a pressure in my head. The steam or the wetness is trying to press through the side of my eye. I sleep indiscriminately and I wake up in different phases of the sun. I think about sleeping at my desk, without the sun. When I am there the sun falls into the apartment in the same way it is now. The stillness is primal. I believe the rotten walls are decaying around me into dry powder and blowing into the creeping sands but the thick surface of paint stays in here. It is the bastion of age, built up out of change and neglect, the bark of a desert tree, the sickness of the brain. In the afternoon I sweat in the bed and the dust burns. I dont get up. The rooms grow soft and my skin weakens with grog. The sky and the ocean and all of the heavy things fill my head. I think about all of the days that I am away. This empty apartment still slips into soft dusk, the shadows fanning into shade and into darkness. Why not stay away. Why not seal the windows with heavy curtains filled with weights and turn on all the lamps and wait. I think it could end that way. The sun will keep rising and falling and slipping betwixt clouds and the sand will drift high against the walls and the door will rust shut in the sea breeze and I wont go back there. The numbers will fall off of the wall and they wont come here. No one comes. The palms scratch at the windows. I configure the lamps around my bed and strip the sheets so I dont cast a shadow in the stillness.
