Little stop, my grandmother used to say. Now a little stop. I think of this when I place it on my tongue and swallow. I don't feel quite right, but then I wasn't quite right before. This unbalanced feeling is perhaps a leveling.
1.30am. A ridiculous time to be so awake, awake enough to work and
yet with nothing to offer. The pounding in my skull is the sound of the
world emptying out. My palms are sweaty. There is a faint odour.
I
have been taking the drugs for three days. I can still see the slide of
the knife into my eye. I can still imagine the cold O of the mouth of a
gun. I can do myself harm, but what is the point when I have no passion
for it. I no longer weep because I am all dried out and I am thirsty as
a dog in summer.
I sit on the couch, sleepless, wide eyed. I
sit and know the vast emptiness of eternity and my place within it.
Only now eternity is shrinking, day by day, closing up on itself till,
next week, or the one after, I will walk down a small street into a
small city and it will feel like everything there is.
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