Thursday, January 26, 2006
A long white sinewy fluffy cloud reaches over the hillside opposite, endless in length, it slowly slides through the background of a framed panel conveniently constructed by the criss-cross of the curtains and a horizontal section of the lower window. The upper section of glass rises up to the top and is covered in a smooth glaze of frost, broken in areas by branches of dribbling condensation.
The red blocks that are the curtains squeeze the daylight towards a thin horizontal strip, floating out a line of golden shapes on the hills of my lower half, swimming as I am in layers of bed covers, swirling about in a spaghetti of orange loops.
The creases of the hair encrusted mattress-cover are gently flattened as I slowly steam roller my body across to the left. I meet the plug socket as it peers over from the wall, its switch like nose angled now towards me as if staring. These things have utility without question. A quiet nothingness without concern. They are just things but exist and hold no anxiety or aspirations. They are made, survive and are replaced at the end of their use. That is that, no quarrel, no argument as to the meaning of it. They need no looking after.