Living Room Winter Light

by practicalspactical

The slow song, on a quiet Friday winter afternoon, I am sitting in my New York City living room, thinking about nothing important, listening to slow chord changes, tasting my own saliva, my wristwatch heavy on my wrist, thirty different web pages open before me, and above the screen of my 21st century computer, is a folding plastic door leading to my peach and cream small room, everything thrown everywhere.

In a little window at the bottom of my screen, I have told my girlfriend not to come until tomorrow, sort-of. It was her idea, and sounds more sinister than I make it.

But there it is.

Long afternoons, and weak winter light streaming through. In another few minutes, in another few songs, I’m going to leave, and take the subway up to the New York Public Library, guarded by its stone lions, and find a book on pirates.

On another screen, I have found a commune where a girl I once met is staying. She apparently just helped in a birthing – so says Facebook (fiberoptic antiseptic false connections for the shy and lonely). I thought it was a metaphor, but apparently not.

Anyway. I have a phone call to make.