this is tiredness talking

It’s so hot. I cannot bear the heat. I want to sit. So I sit, most awkwardly (as awkward as the word awkward), in the middle of the queue, in the middle of the terminal. Like a true hypergraphic I indulge in thoughts and words, numb to what other people think.

I wonder if the lost cause devotes the same time and energy thinking about the possibility. But the lost cause is tired and is about to give up. Advice to self: let go and move on. /crypticparagraph

The queue moved and I’m sitting on a real bench now.

Blankness. May be the best or the worst thing. The worst or the best thing. It might be the longed-for respite, or the undesired absence of something.

Blankness. I can fall asleep now. My exhaustion nestles comfortably in the arms of the humid air. (So my skin produces a by-product salt (salt of the city, not salt of the sea))
This is soporific heat at its worst. Or at its best.
I doze off. Then someone texts. And my peaceful reverie is awakened.

Can you feel the intoxication from exhaustion? So tired that my judgment is impaired, and I wholeheartedly believe that this wooden bench and this humid air is my bed with clean, cold sheets.


breakfast at pancake house

First course:
Classic pancake with a strong egg taste. It is spongey and absorbent and most receptive to syrup and the fluffy scoop of butter. The slices drenched in sweet syrup almost melts inside my cheeks. This is the taste of Sunday morning (on a Thursday).

Second course:
Smooth, hot-turned-lukewarm chocolate. Not too sweet, nor too bitter. But my tongue feels none of the tablea grain I’m accustomed too. My mouth is looking for the viscousity distinct to the classic Spanish hot chocolate Mother cooks.

Third course:
An empty plate and cup, and wandering (bittersweet) thoughts about my lost cause.
The hair, the face, the voice, the thoughts of my lost cause.