Rantings of a freelance writer for tv. Started in a fit of unemployment-induced itchy fingers.
Thursday, January 13, 2011
Burrowed under these blankets, nothing will move. Books on the bedside will yellow, their pages slowly turning to tigerskin powder. The tv will explode and for seven leisurely seconds the ceiling will become a glistening cloud of microscopic glass. The radio will speak in hushed tones. Its comforting rhetorical statements blending with the wall paint, flaking off in razor-thin sheets. The cistern will gurgle, Sunday papers left on its lid crackling every time the bathroom window swings on its hinges. A cellphone will blink, just out of reach. There will be invitations unheeded, requests unacknowledged, promises unfulfilled.
Somewhere a shot will ring out. She will burrow herself deeper.