showers

My room, the suite, seemed too small. I felt like I’d been in my room forever. I’d developed a scratchy sense of stuckness and a fresh, itchy awareness of dust particles floating in the stifling, still air that made me want to stop breathing in so much. But I didn’t, categorically, have the energy to get up and focusing seemed like a lot of effort. I had a big midterm test, first thing this morning and it laid me to waste, mentally. I think I did well but it was a feat. Whenever I feel lifeless and weak, I start to fear I’m coming down with something. But then, everyone’s tired. The suite seems unnaturally quiet, as if no one even has the energy to command our ever-listening AI to play a playlist, so silence ruled by exhausted default. It’s as if a low-pressure area had descended to hold off a brush of refreshing ozone and rain. Could I rouse my posse of symbiotic sort-of siblings for an outing somewhere - like Toad’s bar - just across the street? My door was open, so I called out, rather weakly, “Let’s go out!” Someone, (Lisa sprawled out on the red corduroy couch?) groaned listlessly from the common area. “My treat!” I updogged. Five minutes later, it was showers all around. I love a good shower. A shower’s where I ponder over the big questions, because answers seem to come quickly there. I imagine I’d be wise beyond words if I had a house with a waterfall running through it, like one of those amazing, Frank Loid Wright masterpieces. . . Songs for this: The Duke Is Gone by Chuck Senrick Cannock Chase by Labi Siffre