Walk aimlessly. Up the stairs, stop and stare, out the arched window and into the street. Gray polka dot boxers, white T-shirt, black plastic rimmed glasses. An SUV stops in front of my house - the same color as my boxers, except metallic flaked - and a girl jumps out, bouncing to the house next door. The old people walk their dog around the neighborhood. My street sucks for people watching.
Back downstairs. Lay on the couch that's blue, but I have a hard time thinking of it as blue. I think of it as tan or grey - something other than blue. Get up after five minutes and go into the formal living room.
Lay on the green couch. Can't get comfortable on this couch, even though it has overstuffed cushions. The cushions on the back of the sofa make it hard to dig myself into the seam where the cushions meet and that's what I want to do right now.
Get up and sit down on one of the chairs that mom had made with that fabric she liked ever so much. Pick the one with the ottoman. I deserve the ottoman. Not really, but believing so makes this so much easier. Flip through an interior decorating magazine and let the pictures into my eyes and think, "This is pretty" and feel the heavy glossy pages.
Upstairs to my bedroom. Pull out a quilt and lay down on my naked bed. I will never be comfortable here. Because there are no sheets or pillowcases.
And having no idea what to do with myself and having neither realistic goals or ambitions, or reasons for doing what I already do.
And notice that the sheets are now dry and that I leave my bedroom window open all the time and that if the fog that has recently been infecting the morning somehow became poisonous that I would die sleeping in very clean sheets.
And the mornings have been cold recently and that makes it hard to breathe.
