9:30 - 2004-12-12
fogs
It's early, and the fog is pushed close against my windowpane; muting what little traffic noise Sunday morning has to offer and swallowing up the metaphor with which I would attempt to describe it. I debauched myself slightly last night. So my morning brain...it's pliant, tenderized. I drink for the hangovers, you know. Not the dry-heaving, eyeball-splitting, freshman-rush, kind of hangovers (which I know well); but the "lay down on the shower floor and steam/dream of underground temples and unicorn skulls as the hot morning water hammers your sleepy nutsack" kind of hangovers. An indoor fog.
There are fireworks on the pier scheduled for this evening, and the image of these little Christmas rockets shhhishing up to explode fog-softly over the water elicits a quiet thrill like Chinese poetry.
My apartment smells like soap and coffee. In an hour I should be standing somewhere out there in the fog, turning wet lumber into dust. Good morning.
