Stream of Consciousness VIII, Loren Marple

stream of consciousness VIII By Loren Marple

So it’s one long blank before I get to where I am going it lasts all day and is a foggy whiteness amidst taxi seats and u ea kaes and closed windows so I eat a cookie which always becomes a sleeve and the sugar is sustaining somehow. All I can think of is the arriving and the last thing I do prior is hand an old man his walking stick. He moonlights as strange. And the first thing I see is the yellow the unreal pilly lived-in fluorescence and I feel a softness and I can see a face in the half light and the frustration of the patchy cheeks. And I can’t keep my mouth from curving and it’s warm and enveloping all of a sudden though we both acknowledge I’m the warm one. And I stumble on the realness in the almost dark and collapse on entrance and inhale the spice and my nose stings with the heat and ensuing water and it feels nice to react to a bite

So now I’m wide awake we lie and I think there’s still some questioning and lack of sure but it feels real here in this place and only occasionally brackets an amiable silence. It exists in the edges as a necessary and I like the lack – it makes for thought and grows us. There is space for further knowings. I only hope in my deeps that it doesn’t do something else something like the slow erosion of November.

I turn over and I’m enveloped.