Living with procrastination, I can taste it like damp cardboard over my heart and tongue. I’ll eat my last orange, then put my shoes on. I’ll re-fill the ferret water, then put on my coat. I’ll put my things in my pocket, then walk out the door. This is the theory, this is the thought. Heavy stomached need for food driving me out, but slowly. Self destructive apathy again. Need toothpaste, mundane things, tomorrow I take the garbage out. I should leave before the better shops close, leave before my evening company comes on-line. Better than time spent elsewhere, I won’t mind once I’m there. It’s chilly outside, I will feel it on my skin like your breath on a cold icy night we have yet to have. I’m thinking of Montreal in winter. It never seems to me like there won’t be a meeting, the somnalabists assumption. Talking with fingers only, it’s like curling up to you in sleep.
It’s not lazy, it’s lying down in traffic.