yours are where they should be.

thrown down and i'm lying on the carpet. i've never been able to hear the people below me, but always the ones to my left, despite attic space between us. i'm lying on the rug that hasn't been vacuumed since i first arrived here, and more and more of my clothes have slithered their way out of my wardrobe and littered my half of the room. i halfheartedly fling a scarf towards my bed and turn over on my stomach.

i press my ear to the ground.

despite people telling me i have almost-/perfect pitch, i was never able to pick up certain things. the walls in my house aren't paper-thin, but it wasn't hard to accidentally eavesdrop on the polycarbonate pitter-patter of my brother's fingers on the keyboard. the attic space is almost enough to disengage any busybody's nervous attention, but conversations always float through the poor excuse of a vent in my bathroom while i'm brushing my tongue, or wondering why there is a fire sprinkler in the shower.

it's always more to listen. it takes more and usually yields more. i gently crawl towards the door where the rug ended a foot ago and press my ear to the ground again. i want a story to tell, to weave. fantastical or quirky or charming or delightful. i press my ear to the thin berber hard enough to hear the heart at work.

the carpet sounds like the ocean.

but the ceilings must be thicker than the walls, because even if i hear voices, i cannot discern the conversation. which leads me to think about what would happen if the building were put to some sort of cosmical test and the walls disentegrated, but the ceilings and floors stayed solid--hanging in the air for a split second before falling, one on top of the other, like cartoon pancakes.

things always collapse when you try too hard to listen. conch shells are tricksters, colored and sounding like the ocean and only letting you listen to your own blood circulate through your veins. which might cause the drum to beat faster, and the waves to crash a bit louder and closer together than before. what, high tide? i just had a nice walk on the beach.

i don't think i'll eat real meals all this week.

"you're the curses through my teeth," says annie.
why do you have to be the least bit ideal?

-d