Moving between kitchen to desk to morning bed,
with occasional detours to the store for cigarettes
and the curiousity that is people, to feel the weight
of other breathing that is not mine, and the small
pocket of warm air that every body carries around
it — I spend my days. Of course there is music,
of course there are the books, louder than music,
better depth, more layers, a sweeter sound.
I have turned a deaf ear to the world, taught
my skin to suffer the cold, but my eyes are open,
they blink but they open again and they open again.