Day 295: Porcelain

I fell asleep after work. The sheets were buttery. The light was low. I couldn't remember who I was. 

Now I am here. Just need to write some thing or other, then fall back into that waiting sack. Very sleepy. It’s my birthday now. I am older.

I have one more year and a shorter beard and no empty beer bottles around my bed. I have a few clothes and a few books and soft jazz playing in this room. A to-do list that I add to more than tick off. Pell mell head with helter skelter thoughts. Phone on charge. Bank account filling up at a rate almost imperceivably faster than I can drain it. Sensitive skin moisturiser. Old worn sneakers. Old worn denim. Capacious plaid shirts that swallow me nicely whole. Not much poetry but some poetry, distant music in a room on a far off street.

I am all cracked and chipped and dusty, but where there are cracks you get to see the porcelain; it feels good when you run your hand over the ridges of coarse kilned clay. There's nothing to clay but stuff of the Earth, hardened in incandescent flame.

The wind also gets in the cracks, but it resonates beautifully, and the breeze is fine as it sweeps on through.

Eventually everything inside and outside us sweeps on through.

I must sleep now. I am no spring chicken, and those buttery sheets await.