MysteryGuy?

The bitch is fickle. She jumps out of my lap in the same instant that the sliding-door slides next-door; between my neighbor and I, only one of us spoils her without restraint or shame, so suddenly I'm cold again. Not that I mind--it's time I head off to work, and anyway, the love of my life is still just a dog.

Without distaste, MysteryGuy stares into the negative spaces that contaminate his apartment. He's holding very still, thinking that he understands the being of his corduroy waistcoat hanging away in his bedroom closet. He watches his foot tap rapidly against the leg of his armchair, and feels matter-of-factly distinct. He wonders if he'll be remembered, but he doesn't wonder by who.

Through his thigh MysteryGuy feels the wake of motion of the foot bobbing before him. He imagines the billions of tiny processes that occur in the realm of his body, half-hoping they wouldn't suddenly cease, and also equates his own self with every one--responsible for all possible outcomes or failures of the moving shoe attached to him--in complete control of the thing that seem to effect him. His footsteps while he thinks in this way--seemingly unobserved.

Particularly awake, MysteryGuy uses that [un?]disembodied foot to very deliberately stand up.


My dog--gathered up, curled in front of the window so's to sleep through the traffick sounds. My heart means to be strongly felt; my skin warming to it easily. My long breath is displaced by this arrangement of words, so trying to be concerned.

Why distraction? Why disapproval? didn't you ever memorize the number of holes in the ceilings of your classrooms, after counting them, countless times?

There are people that come into and leave my life, not gently, and moving quickly. They taste unfinished in my eyes--they have neither desire nor chance to distract me, and neither would I allow them to. But it is their theoretical selves that leave me this bewildered; knowing you're at least that real. How is it that I am the same!? What do we do with this? These ancient implants sitting before each other with half-lidded opportunity?

Way better at accidents than intention. Don't forget how annoying it is! And ridiculous! This is certainly not about choice.