Monday, May 21, 2012

night time musings

I hear a drunken interlude of chorus and song. and melody. the wind carries most of it away (on the back of a storm which whispers of a downpour in the early hours of the morning)

it sounds broken, choppy. a man's voice after one too many shots of tequila, though lacking in a trio of background singers. it sounds like he is perhaps not as intoxicated as the usual crowd mulling the streets, yelling or cursing or laughing obscenely.

a textbook sits open in front of me while I try to simultaneously absorb a theory of capability and the song playing in my backyard - an open space of town-houses and parking lots and hidden drive ways concealed from the main road by a patch of trees

canvas bags and post-its and empty cups litter my floor. an ikea pillow sits in my lap. I discard the text for a moment, listening to his voice hit higher notes in a rough voice, then slow down some measures to a languid and lulling rhythm. like a poem in a song. like a poem in my head.

it stops like it began, slowly drifting, and pulled away by rustling leaves. lights scatter the windows of apartment buildings and houses, and I wonder where he went: retreating from a backyard after a private performance or from a quiet spot on the pavement?

the numbers click and tok to its consecutive partner, the night drawing to its peak. the house moves as it does at midnight - the hum of the fridge, the shuffles of the neighbour below, the slow spins of the ceiling fan. familiarity rests over my body like a blanket and I close my eyes.

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