Blessed are the cigarettes that divide my sleepless night measuring time into tiny tasks. They make my living breath tangible.
My left shoulder, the one that Zissou fixed with strong hands has cramped back into out of place and if I knew the man better I would be tempted to set my car to autopilot and find his hands wherever they are.
The Spatula is casting rectangular light above my door. This old house with its absurd windows above doorways. There was a sheet of cardboard pushed tight against the light but it fell out and then I put it on top of my ornate desk. Now there are plants, a lamp and giant squat three wicked candle sitting on top of it.
I feel out of order, too many questions and unrevealed thoughts. I am not bold enough to divine what it is that I am thinking. What am I doing going around filling my life with people and events. I need this house to be clean. I need this house to be tidy. I need to sit myself down and finish this manuscript. This world is all distraction.
