i don’t sleep more than six hours in three days. i read summer of hate all night. i watch documentaries about football players and their blown bodies. mike webster, old iron flesh, so fucked up he had to taze himself in the thigh every night to sleep. at dawn i eat homemade almond cookies, crumbs stuck to my lotioned chest. i must look into the mirror at least once a day or  else i forget that it is me inside this body. in the morning i yell at M for not wanting to talk about books, or the weather, or anything at all. i want to talk through time, its true. of course i want to be good but it is hard not to act like a shameless cunt when a woman in a BMW honks at me for pedaling too slow on my bike. in times of economic crises, you must be very happy that you have a boss, even if they call on yr day off can you cover tonight’s shift for tiffany? i always say yes. if i could stuff my duffle bag and steal away for a few weeks, sob alone in a strange bed, amongst the crush of pine trees, i could remember how to be nice. if i could sleep at night, i could dream. it might all be different.