11.22.07 - 1:14 am

there is a slight sound of music quietly seeping from the crack where the light bleeds onto the carpeting. the door, unable to close because of the moist towels hanging from its corner, pushes open with ease. on the floor scatters the clothing from the week before; twisted, piled and lazily strewn over the bag of nails and screws. even the black cord of the screwdriver curls around itself with a fluid complexity; leaning against the wall at the foot of the tall silver ikea lamp. its bulb, a beacon shining upward from its plastic cradle, seen as the sun through a heavily hazed sky. connecting the foot of the lamp to the stack of photo albums is a pair of blue spongebob boxers; stolen of course from justin michael davis. crumpled inward, a shoebox containing images of a young michael spear sits ontop of the albums towering above the pile of loosely rolled johnny cash posters encroaching beyond the invisible barrier of the doorless closet. here in this tiny compartment, the weight of goodwill shirts all of similar pattern and structure bend the rod that holds them eagerly. a banjo leans against the longest of these fabrics, the oil from inexperienced hands have dulled the drum but the glistening metal cares not. from here the bed pushes into the corner of the room. loose sheets cover the mattress creating miniature dunes of cloth across the entire miniature desert of a coverless bed. just beyond the two pillows still rigid with their recent introduction the tail end of a green blanket pours off the bed and up the back of a desk chair. it wraps like a heavy cloak over his shoulders and the top of his crossed legs as he types in the cold of his bedroom. as he looks over the borrowed video camera, the digital camera and the ski goggles at opposite sides of his keyboard, he remembers that he forgot just how cold it gets in the approaching winter. how delightfully cold.

and as the veils slur out the words to vicious intentions he realizes he is happy. and satisfied.