There is a light in the abandoned house across the road; a half crescent shape winks towards me, a solitary tooth in a cold grin. What would it be like to be a clock? To feel time, to understand each second like a friend or lover? Would every second be the same and act the same as it passed over my face? Would hours pass by like strangers? Could I allow these rigid entities to settle, to resist the drag of want? Yes, hours and days would slip away, uncontrolled, unfettered, as my face gathers dust and atomic accuracy.
Words fall sometimes from my mouth. Without real thought, sounds form before thought, then reason comes later; then regret follows that: the dialogue that ensues with your own bizarre logic calling upon every demon and god to rip the very skin from your bones.
My hand is on the handle of the drawer which has been pulled from its peculiar socket, sliding silently forwards, backwards, in and out, in and out, until the contents of the drawer lie still in their place. A coffin for my possessions: three inhalers, unopened letters and random writings: dead words for imaginary friends, CD covers and laces from old shoes. The light from the patio window is merely inches away as the rain slams into the glass, trying its hardest to reach me and destroy my life, but my hands settled into patterns over a calculator, a flyer, a manual for a bread maker, a torn postcard. A sigh forms in my mouth, then it’s swallowed. Then I breathe out of my nose to sustain my shallow interest in my own life.
I place my hands back onto the handles and close the drawer half way, memories of soil and dredged harbours reflect off the glass as again I watch the scenes of explosive light, in Hamburg, in Hannover, Mainz, and Dresden, again.
I push the drawer all the way back in, the anchor returning.