Lie flat on your bed & run your fingers across the clammy bedsheet threads & tell me how you feel.
It’s hot. The outside world drowns in a cacophony of cicadas.
Today is windy. Not the kind you remembered as a child dancing your fingers against the warp-speed air while sitting on the back of mother’s motor scooter, twirling past streaks of city lights that hypnotize you to someplace timeless, but a lukewarm wind that blows an ominous summer muck, wraping your skin in a molasses cocoon.
Once in a while the curtains violently jerk away from the half-opened windows, making a muted floomp that momentarily snaps you out of your half-lucid opium dream of never-ending thoughts. You try to remember how many times you’ve heard that sound before, & how many times you wished it would finally snap away from the curtain rods & break free to float freely in the autumn breeze.
But instead, you’re here, stuck with trying to count how many fucking minutes have passed & wasted as you lie comatose because you can’t seem to think of a better way to use them.
If you lied there for a while longer, maybe you’d find something worth getting up for.
floomp. There it goes again.
Your eyelids flash open.
Your phone vibrates on the opposite side of the bed, calling you to an alternative void of a curated world where every word and pixel are exquisitely chosen, hand-picked for your aesthetic pleasures.
floomp
You realize how thirsty you are & remember that smoothie you made in the fridge; the one with bananas & pineapples.
floomp
Alright I get it. Quit nagging me.
floomp, snap, slurp, glug, cue cicadas