nuther January prose

I wake up late in the afternoon, my long piss an incomprehensible type-writer ribbon of the previous night's thoughts. Unspooled, I feel more blank than relieved. What was I thinking about? Bright lights and human greatness, excuses excuses. Lying in bed, one's fantasies can be heard breathing softly, laying still before one by one gathering their things, creeping out to their jobs. They do this when I'm supposed to be asleep, but I can hear them sometimes, dropping their football helmets, ripping their silk stockings, gathering loose pages before becoming invisible in the light of day. I wake up sometimes, spend the day chasing them as they dance from word to word, person to person, street to street. I never catch them all, so I stay up all night, let them chase me for a change, as I dance from cigarette to cigarette, page to page, moment to moment. They don't all come back though, and the ones that do bring strange friends. Nights like that make me want to start waking up earlier.