Nothing of interest. Everything terrible.
Friends who press thumbpads to phone screens, who pick at eyelashes, who’s face muscles jerk and twitch as they gaze down at phone screens and others comment on how they pick at their lashes. Flushed faces that hide nothing, but everyone goes on ignoring because the book is too easy to read. You’ve got to have a little mystery to you. Isn’t that what they say? Books too easy to read, books to hard to read, reading is going out of style anyway. I suggest screaming bloody murder until someone, agrees.
Desperate effort to find something worth noticing, worth noting noticing, nothing worth noting noticing except how fucking unclever you are. Roommates that drag their feet, roommates that slam their feet, roommates with feet so small as to make no sound at all and who deafen my writing with their silent, horribly fucking tiny feet.
Thick hazy showers, the kind that produce clouds hanging low above carpet, mists barely creeping along tile. Heavy showers, that turn your skin to comforters, or baggy clothing, or something that’s crumpled and folded and dense with condensation. Showers that feel like washing away sins, showers that actually wash away sins… Showers so thick that you’d rather not ever leave, you’d rather just stand in them and imagine tropics heating up each inch of limb, moment after moment, in an eternity of heavy, hazy showers.
Paint dragged across canvas, pores that show through until bristles mash a smothering orange over them. Milky water, solo cups “not for drinking”, we are reminded to plan for Sunday festivities of that exact nature. Smoke made from purple and green and orange and white and purple and pure luck, mountain ranges on fire, if you squint hard enough. Donald Trump made out of ashy pinks, from a plate of paints otherwise destined to be terrible, terrible flowers. Double edged sword of fate, for these acrylics.
Skin mashed into bus seats, cellulite appearing in a hushed whisper under skin that certainly doesn’t have any. “I’m vegan!” Eyelashes stuck together in clumps tips. Bundles. Bus drivers who’s real names aren’t Pancho. “Who can we trust?” Wriggling in pain, running fingers over air vents to check if they are closed, again and again. Goosebumps, named for their nudging, that-one-friend-that keeps you awake.
Mirrors hung parallel to nothing. Its edges defying the common sense of striped wallpaper and wooden door frames, its crookedness laughing in the face of well-hung hand-towels. Disobedient mirrors, hanging parallel to nothing. Anarchy in the bathroom.