Protraction of my waking hours, my head clogged with junk. The sounds outside my window, the snoring of the dogs, the parade in my head, boom boom. What is the meaning of all this dancing (one two three four one two three four)? This is a contest i cannot win, i drop to the floor, exhausted, feet sore, but i pass through, keep falling, the floor was never there. The number pinned to my shirt comes undone, flutters, a dead bird. Insentient.
Look up. In every window, you will see a stranger. One sweeping the floor, one smoking a cigarette, one speaking on the phone, one daydreaming, one kissing another, one playing solitaire, one eating a meal, one checking the weather, one contemplating jumping, one waiting for a knock or a letter, one dressing, another undressing. Lights on, lights off, hiding in the dark, peering out into the honk and squawk of the street below. Voices, the sound of city, a humming fan. Peering out the window, peering in the window. The eye exists to see.
But the eyelids exist to close.
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The viewer views the view while being viewed by the view.
But then sleep comes and the view moves inside.
This is the meaning of solitude.
You know this already.
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