Dumb

One week ago I was happy to find myself sitting cross-legged eating a pancake. I take them plain, mostly, without butter or syrup. This one was grainy and had chopped almonds in it, the color was a warm barkish brown and I did not make it. Then I drove and drove for a while--apparently through the town where Stephen King found his bearings in the 1950s and learned to identify hard woman and had the whole echo chamber inside his head blown out more than once.

I can be incredibly interior; which is why during that drive where I imagined Stephen King, yes he, with his penchant for developing characters across and between the thresholds of life and death, the living and dying, it is why I thought that that man understands what it can really feel like to hear the dipteran humming of maine in the summer. And I sat almost completely silent headed towards Portland, my interiors collapsing and reconstructing themselves like living buildings, architectural species transforming corridors and stairwells based on some intrinsic impulse. Similar to this, only more fantastic. Less hydraulics.

Regardless, it's not that I'm oblivious to my surroundings and the company I keep while deliberating intercourse between beetles, but one week ago I was particularly wordless in the morning and would have been happy to lie down, fully conscious, all day, beneath a fan. Not alone, but curled up and bent this way and that. Sometimes I keep the characters in my entries unseen because it feels selfish and too forward to also describe how I appreciated their heavy look while our road matched up with the river and they stretched on for a while, side by side, looking quite similar and neither caring anything of it.