Saturday, February 01, 2014

3614.

She was small and danced with a cane, twirling around it from time to time.

Saturday, January 04, 2014

3613.

His face smelled of lavender and water. 

Thursday, October 03, 2013

3612.

He said to himself, “I have returned to the earth to feel the sun through air on my skin.”

Tuesday, September 17, 2013

3611.

The squirrels dropped acorn caps Around but not on him. 

3610.

He regretted, a month later, not ordering the meal finished with cigar smoke. 

Friday, September 13, 2013

3609.

He heard a woman cough in the dark, twice (nothing more). 

Monday, June 24, 2013

3608.

He walked in his underwear through the night of his house. 

Tuesday, April 16, 2013

3607.

One of his dogs had become a saber-toothed dachshund.

Sunday, April 14, 2013

3606.

The apartment smelled of potatoes, though he'd no idea why.

3605.

He warmed himself with a cold blanket.

Saturday, April 13, 2013

3604.

A half tin of sprats kept him moving into the night.

Sunday, March 24, 2013

3603.

He purred as he entered his bed.

Friday, March 15, 2013

3602.

His shower smelled deeply of water.

Tuesday, January 08, 2013

3601.

He sat on the toilet and produced only blood.

Monday, January 07, 2013

3600.

What comforted him most was dread.

3599.

He might have stayed awake for the music, because he could not understand the language of its words.

3598.

Sleep was always a possibility, never a certainty.

3597.

Maybe he could wait for it, he thought, before wondering if he were he.

3596.

He could think of nothing else to do.

Saturday, January 05, 2013

3595.

The time was ripe or right—he didn't know which.

Thursday, January 03, 2013

3594.

The cloud was the shape of Iberia, but attached to no continent.

Tuesday, November 13, 2012

3593.

He didn't know if he had been buffeted or buffeted by the wind.

Tuesday, October 30, 2012

3492.

Sense, he thought, is pungent.

Monday, October 22, 2012

3491.

He knew it was a wheat penny before he turned it over.

Sunday, September 30, 2012

3490.

He had been dreaming that he was no longer dreaming.

3489.

He found his dog outside in the dark and the rain and the nasturtiums.

Sunday, September 09, 2012

3488.

He accidentally smelled the perfume on the inside of his wrist and believed he could then sleep.

3487.

There is, he thought, nothing else to do, even if something left to.

Wednesday, September 05, 2012

3486.

“It takes so long," he lamented, silently, “It takes so long.”

3485.

The rain didn't fall on him, yet it still rained.

3484.

He knew it wouldn't happen.

3483.

To the poet, he wrote, “You won't like the poems. I write to my own esthetic, no-one else's. And I really don't believe in caring. All people are undependable at caring, myself included. I hold no hope or expectation of such.”

3482.

The drugs wouldn't allow him to cry.

3481.

“If never,” he wished.

3480.

“Love your father,” he said, wasting his thought.

3479.

He thought, “ ,” and he said, “ .”

Sunday, September 02, 2012

3478.

He read until some great turning had almost extinguished the light around him.

3477.

He sniffed the sweet scent of sandalwood on his wrists.

3476.

The wind blew the scent of his growing oregano over him.

Wednesday, August 29, 2012

3475.

He heard no music in the night.

Tuesday, August 28, 2012

3474.

He could still see, he could still walk, he could still feel, no matter how little of him were left.

3473.

He wanted to take in his right hand the left breast of the woman who asked him, “Any change?” and kiss her fully, before holding her beautiful face in his hands and saying to her, “Somebody somewhere loves you, and I wish it were me.”

3472.

As he passed each woman on the street, he whispered, “Beautiful," so quietly she could not hear it.

Tuesday, August 21, 2012

3471.

The stairwell smelled of honey and echoed with each of his steps.

Friday, August 17, 2012

3470.

He dreamed all night of strange insects that infiltrates people's bodies and destroyed civilization; after he awoke he turned on the shower, and the stream of water flushed a clump of hair off the drain catch, but when he picked up the clump the million hairy legs of a centipede pulsed and he dropped the creature (he had forgotten he was bald).

Wednesday, July 25, 2012

3469.

He thought only about the plastic blue small hamper.

Tuesday, July 24, 2012

3468.

He ate a purple plum, he ate a red plum, he ate a yellow plum, he ate an apricot.

Sunday, July 01, 2012

3467.

No, his daughter had not sent him a postcard as well, because he was really no longer her father, because he didn't actually write her a letter every day she lived outside of the country, because he did not matter anymore, because he wasn't worth the cost.

3466.

He wondered if his daughter had sent him a postcard as well.

3465.

He awoke that morning with a sunburned neck and a blister on the ball of each foot.

3464.

He had kept remembering the event: He asked the little girl why she was not as tall as the adults around her, and she answered that it was because she was small, so he asked, "Isn't that answer a bit tautological?"

3463.

The day before, he had awoken with a gummy eye and blurry vision, the corner of his eye swollen open to create the illusion of a rough tear and cradling a tear within it.

Saturday, June 30, 2012

3462.

He recognized the mulberries first by the purple mottling of the sidewalk.

3461.

The next two mulberries had not borne any fruit.

3460.

A block later, he found another one, even sweeter.

3459.

He could reach, with both feet flat on the ground, just high enough to pick and taste a mulberry: sweet, insipid, childhood.