Thursday, July 17

if i was a bed / i'd be an unmade bed

Summer is the roadnoise of a high-mileage Japanese import headed nowhere on an anonymous American interstate and you're just waiting for a tire to shred itself out onto the pavement, collect all at once on your debts to momentum and aimlessness and fossil fuel. Summer is the pan of dirty motor oil sitting in the hallway because you keep forgetting to find a jug slowly outgassing toxicity and in your imagination at least the entropic stench of several thousand deadend miles. Summer is cheap moral logic fuzzily attributed to dead Russian novelists1, the toasted lint and spilled detergent smell of laundromats, and the subtle shift from dead conversation to dead electronics as your cellphone battery yields to chemical fatigue.

1 Hey, Ben. Thanks for reading.