i've swallowed up half
the secret history, huddled under covers in just my underthings, on bean's side of the bed since both cats were curled up insistently on my side, on top of the covers.
i love moments in too-familiar novels when i come upon paragraphs i've memorized from overuse. my eyes move across & see the words as aesthetic creatures only. it is all meaningless. it is all absorbed.
still novels have a bad way of giving me a headache, which is why i am always announcing i'm going to give up reading them (going to give up coca-cola, going to give up hiding dark chocolate in my desk like a child in a strict house), & it's hard to pull myself out to make dinner, & i probably should have re-read the autobiography of red instead, which i will do maybe tomorrow, if i have enough time to do it all in one sitting, which is the only way to do it i think.
for a while i sort of fell asleep & had a dream i wrote a long poem about thrombopulmonary embolism, which was strangely pretty, & when i woke i could only remember the very end. i looked over, very groggy, & there were two cats looking at me. recko alert. murmur as bleary as i was, eyelids low, one arm stretched out from the tight curl of her body, all the little claws flexed at the end.
