Spock in his Underwear

Souvenirs in the dim perpetuity of skin. Latex dominoes tumbling through the elaborate contraptions our bodies invent. Preshrunk cotton sighing. Stale mannequins ripped from their faces. Gauze shadows on the wall hangings. Changing the images to suit crisis. Or rather, what it means at the moment.

The rails of the escalator don't move with the steps. I buy more paper, but it still isn't blank.

There in the exchange that takes place when I'm deciding how much longer I should remain sober, nothing is so charming as the prospect of dying. Not sixty years from now. Maybe tomorrow. Or next week. Preferably not on a holiday. Or a weekend.

But whenever it should happen. Or I should coerce it to be. In it there is so much potential. Even to die on christmas would be better than to live waiting for it to happen.