Feigning, a faux-death from fatigue and sadness. The end of something. Summer is almost here. The pretty girls are going home. Driving by the college coming from a day's working at the factory then the gym, having stopped for lotion and liquor and food, the sun dipping but still warm, drunk with worry and a lack of sleep, I want to go home to the other drunkenness. A pretty blond walks slowly somewhere under drooping oaks, turns her head as I pass. This song plays. A slow drive past the lake, the big open water, the long early-evening sky. I carry paper bags into the house and set them on the counter. The cat runs to me for attention, for food. I am worn. I scoop some ice from the freezer into a glass, squeeze in lime, pour Campari and then the sweet vermouth. Some Perrier.
I write this.
I can feel the fatigue when I read this...it's that universal fatigue we all feel sometimes isn't it? Or is it something more...Or does it matter? It's the words that reach out and tie me in knots...it feels familiar and far away at the same time...
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