I will be.
Or else this room. This being and place of rest; sweating reprieve from toil and pursuit. This middle. Factory break room of all. And me, inside them. The common river in the nightshift of desert plains. Coming to mid-point idle, dinners and lunches. In trance and slow passage to bitter aging meanness, we sit and eat, and stare. Out windows into street light and dark. Windows that sieve light, that reflect half in mirror, looking inside this room - fluorescent haze and night. Breathing inside this work of power and content; the calm anxiety. Breathing in the medium room of adulthood, sailing away in vessels on oceans never to return – to die in the waters, murdered by dreams, against purgatory rooms. I, and my opaque reflection in glass. To disappear in things, into a dark star. Invisible, restless.
