Sit you in darkness, cloaked, hemmed in by the coos of specters rumbling tinny in a tune on a digital wave, be-hooded, bespectacled and behind on chores, slippered and sniffling from summer pollens, sipping honey-lemon tea and sucking in a newfound gut pink with sunburn from the Sandy River sun, Stoneking swamping boogies on jungle adventures, urging you to swing there and to not worry about what tomorrow will bring.
You are not one to take sitting idly mildly, so 'tween pacings of concrete barn floor cold in subduction you stalk the corners with makeshift dusters, cleaning up the cobwebs both literally and figuratively, walking your castle and assessing its majesty in spite of the spiders' takeover every spring, swishing errant cat hair from the rug with the bottoms of your feet to discard of properly because the slightest unsightliness is cause for an explosion of intense private rage.
You are not one to admit openly of your distastes, your irritations in mixed company, your insistences on clear communication, unsullied thoroughfares of synapse-firing, backing-and-forthing, yet you sit in darkness like this, with shades drawn, with washing machine whirring in the foreground of a blues-y afternoon in the twilight of your young man life, whispering confirmations that in spite of your lethargy, you have things that still need doing, puzzles to coax and conquer from the alcoves of some as-yet-unknown landscape, and that you alone must compel these, divination be damned, for your only, only sure-thing is the spit and venom boiling inside you to make you do anything at all, whatsoever, for the rest of your goddamn shitty wonderful fucked-up life.
