the frost rattles at the door and the winds flap at the window.
it seems absurd to be alone, high, low, lost, dreaming, of foreign lands and being lazy and singing to the walls
"ha hah hah"
while halloween, all black eyes and yellow stripes, gathers outside
and the birds laugh back from the trees outside the window
where they, too, the little bastards, huddle from the approaching winter.
it is summertime inside, though, and i'm at peace, and it feels so good to die.
this is a photograph of the place. i left my camera on the shelf and took photos of the bed over the course of several days (in the morning, in the afternoons, at night with the candles near the bed since there's no lights in the place), noticing how time slides by but things don't, really, change.
the room was bare and i had no furniture, just my wooden trunk. i had no money, either, and so i sat inside and took pictures each day of the trunk and the room and other existential items. the trunk, after having been in a dozen countries in as many months looks like time.
it is being slowly smashed to pieces, but it is my home these days.