Saturday, March 15, 2014


There's mold in the shower.  He pushes it with his forefinger.  
It's slimy.  Like snot.
He rolls it between his forefinger and thumb.  Makes a mold noodle.  Then drops it.  Watches it ride the rush of water down the drain.

Then it's back to cleaning himself.

He massages shampoo into his beard.  It makes his chin tingle.  Probably the peppermint, he thinks as the burn intensifies.  

Saturday.  This is Saturday.

He can hear his cat screaming from outside the bathroom door.  
Complaints.  Wails.  His cat does not meow.

Shut up, he mumbles as water streams down the back of his neck.  Pours over his face.  His nostrils.  His mouth.  His eyes.  

Please, shut up, he repeats.

Magow, the cat calls.  Magow.

And the wind pushes so hard against the window he wishes it would break through and swoop him up.  Spiral him into the air.  Throw him about with such spontaneous speeds and velocity that his senses would pause.  They would brake.  

And when he'd land he'd be unknown.  And the land would be unknown to him.  And he would keep that relationship as long as he could.

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