Saturday, October 01, 2005

4:24 am, 30 September 2005

[Ed. note: This piece was found scrawled on the back of a "Missing Cat" poster in the living room of a residence on Uber St in Phildelphia. It has been reproduced here without omission, unless you count that coffee stain at the bottom, which was simply not translating to the electronic medium.]

Insomnia gives me this strange, heightened sensation feeling, where everything I touch is rough like sandpaper or smooth like a river stone or hot like the sun or cold like hypothermia, pins and needles fingers, frozen nose, white knuckles and ears so cold they might break off. I move my toes and I get distracted from reading because I think a foreign object has invaded my airspace. I can't concentrate - everything that moves (cats, clocks, toes) needs my utmost attention for a whole moment so that I can observe the movement, process it, and move on to the next thing.

I've been told that this is what life is like when you're stoned. I don't know, as I have no basis for comparison. But I do know that it just took me a whole minute to swallow a gulp of water because I was busy whishing it in and out of my front teeth, holding it in pursed lips and pushing out my mustache and soul patch and running fingernails through the coarse hair and pushing the water against this mysterious cut on my gums that has been plaguing me for days.

Eyelids heavier, will to start new novel waning, cats seem to lead very good lives. Maybe I will sleep on the couch. That seems like a good idea for some reason.


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