There is absolutely nothing in the world to write about today.
Look all around you. That gigantic dollhouse reverberating with the movements of the gods of Wall Street, brick edifice buttressed all in Fabergé gold and bleeding cinnamon-tainted yolk as the sun coughs up a new day in the beetle’s den that is the shattered city-nest –
I’ve already written about that dollhouse twice now.
And the frosted window of this bedroom, where cranberries beg and giggle like red swollen fingertips against the glass, twinkling a precarious little tune that might just end in a star-shaped crack, a crash and a rush of icy air through a hole between the inside and the universe –
that window speaks to everyone in the world but me. I have nothing to say about that window
or about anything else in this nothing-world today. Not even
that pillow lying dormant and forgotten at the precipice of the mattress, flung aside this morning after listening saintly to every single secret of my dreams, engraving untouched waterfalls into its maps of cloud forests and bridges to the gods of something bigger than Wall Street and smaller even than my loneliness, where waits for me that magical amalgam of velvet-squid emptiness and star-chiseled personness, his arms open to take me without any words any need to prove that I am one of the million billion same boring old stars in the same old space which is nothing but the aftermath of some ancient cosmic belch –
No, nothing to write about, not even in that frivolous pillow. I lock it behind the closet door and stare into the mirror because there is nothing here to think about.