August 07, 2005

I forgot how pink the early hours of morning are — the sky looks almost indecent at this hour. Outside my window the entire world is covered in dew. The cars are glistening with wetness as is every single blade of grass on my lawn. Somewhere in the house, Laura is sleeping. By the time she’ll get up the dew will be gone, the sky will no longer be pink, and she’ll be naked and rubbing her eyes. I’ll tell her how things look in the morning — faint, like a dream. She will smile and kiss me, and I will say something insensitive about the dew.

My room looks windswept, ravaged. There’s duct tape on the floor, uneaten cookies on the desk, lenses, knifes, empty plates, coffee mugs, withered flowers, and other remnants of blogging orgies.

Even my body remembers the night. On my right arm the word ‘penis’ is written in permanent marker, while the scabs on my left arm bleed quietly after slight abuse.