8/15/2009 12:40:00 AM - Typewriter Writing # 2

My typewriter and my fan are the only sounds I've heard for three months, a day, and two hours, since you left. The birds outside my house left with you. The breezes are now silently avoiding me, trying diligently not to remind me of you, or to carry and spread your scent, still embedded in all the furniture, through my house, or to ruffle the curtains, so that I may not look outside or have any fainting, false hope of your return. In abject loneliness I sit, not eating, not shaving, not caring. My Marlboro is the liveliest companion I have. I type robotically, not giving the words much thought. All of my thoughts run freely to you. They run--freely--to you, their prison. "You're my prison, my prison are you... and you're my freedom. You're the one I loathe, and you're the one I adore..." So the clicking disguises the muteness of my room, of my life. And only the TING of the typewriter, announcing another major accomplishment in my moot life, the writing of another line, can force me into moving or snapping out of the abysmal state I'm in. The fan clicks in a melancholic rhythm, and hums a mournful tune so unlike the tunes that played in your presence... At night, some crickets join the threnody. The cigarette smoke floats like a spirit in the room, and moves slavishly, directed by the whim of the fan. So I wait for you, in my hopeless state and my aposiopetic writing.

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