I had some strange daydreams this afternoon.
A man in a top hat had come to collect something from me, something glass embedded in my brain. I didn’t really want this to happen, so I sent him away. He said something like, “Nothing much of real use there, anyway.”
And I thought for a while on futility. Standing over the sink, thinking that the butterfly sticker stuck there in a difficult place to notice was actually quite an elegant thing. Outside, the leaves had all fallen off the trees.
I was thinking of Denny’s where Berta and Dave and I would spend too many nights. I would play cards with Dave, and Berta would fall asleep on me. We would order dinner and then breakfast, playing cards the whole time.
I remember our apartment. And I have pictures. Berta is dressed in her Christmas dress, ready for the party. I’m not in any of the photos, of course. The walls of the apartment are bare, but we have our warm rug on the carpet. I remember that it was very warm when you layed down on it.
We used to play Scrabble a lot. I would usually win, but it was fun to watch our scores improve over time.
I drank some soda.
There was some metaphysical insight triggered by chemicals in my brain, just then. I tried to bring it to the surface. It was something about there being too much experience to have it wasted when we die. That there is too much purpose to our own lives while we’re living to let it just dwindle when we’re no longer here. Or something.
More soda.
I remembered Abby’s strange fantasies about flies preventing her from sleeping in her own bed. Too tired to dwell on this right now, actually. Visions of old paper, crisp with age, pieces broken and carried away by the wind.
