Friday, January 20, 2006

i = why.

written 12/1/05:

Invested in a situation that immediately fell out of his control, Victor lay down under his covers one night, and somewhere along the line, drifting in and out of awareness, concluded that his life would be safe if he never left his bed again.

"So warm," thought Victor, one eye half open, the other half shut. "So soft. I'd like to donate my legs to someone who'll put them to good use."

That morning, when his wife, who had slept in a bedroom all her own since Victor had stopped brushing his teeth and, more painfully, ceased cutting his toenails, noticed in the late morning, sitting at the breakfast table, patiently waiting and waiting for Victor to come prepare her daily biscuit, jam, three eggs, and freshly-juiced oranges, that her husband was strangly and disappointingly absent, she went to see if he was playing sick. He was playing harder than ever.

"Shoeboxes, shoeboxes," moaned Victor...

(Added 8/24/06:)

Victor solidly slept for the next four days, saturating the bedroom with the dense, humid odor of sleeper's sweat. In the meantime, his wife, unsettled by this incoherent message from her husband, began smoking cigarettes on the back porch and fancied all the things that she wanted but had never received in her life. And to pass the time equanimously, she sat for the full four days and fantasized about possible means to all these loose ends. Interim plausibilities.


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