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{winter dawn stall} matthew rounsville a pull of lights, heavy station undertow, dim vibe because my eyes are closed. a hundred or so traveller's voices blend into one throbbing dissonance, cymbals at the edge of my eyelashes, needling my sleep. the ticket in my back pocket is supernaturally hot. In the past thirteen hours I've reread it several dozen times-- can't recall a single thing, maybe haven't read it at all-- only go to the end because that's where your face is. Dirty numb sleeplessness. Step outside for a smoke-- dawn looks horrible here: the city is scrambled. Bum on my right. No relation. Flick the butt into the street despite the cop, wonder if somebody's tire is going to melt because of me. Think of staying here. My stomach hurts, is a broken fishbowl. Could tweak a while, get back those monotone platform days where zen makes total stupid sense, where I'm not sure if I'm a dragon or a mosquito. Hotel room, naked calves, glowing curtains, sunglasses, and a lighter-reflex on my right hand unmatched in the states. Talk about golf and sailing to not feel so damned lumpen, mention 'ergonomic women' when almost everybody's gone, sigh that combusts in a one-off laugh. 15 hours left. Almost fell asleep again. Spazzed awake, looked around, dizzy. Before I'm asleep I see this room, every single time, the waiting room for dreams I guess. Fisted lumpy yellow lamplight, glare on the back wall. One day I'll find this place when awake and I don't know what. |
