3 a.m.
With the clarity that could only be attained by being woken up at 3 a.m. - by the clatter of blinds banging against the window as wind squealed through the gaps, I reasoned that if the roof crashed in or got blown away, I could probably still sleep if my neighbour upstairs didn't wake up screaming.
And with the same brand of logic, I somehow decided I would get blown away by the wind, backpack and all, if I went outside.
Under the fuzzy doona of dreams, I thought I'd miraculously found some band-aid to cover my fingers which were sore from traversing steel strings, making chords with complicated names. I dreamed that the arches of my feet stopped collapsing and no longer hurt.
At 3 a.m. in a strange room in Paris, the light was a subdued orange off the streetlamp shrouded in fog. I was kept awake by the noises in the street; I didn't know if people were killing each other fighting or boisterously having loud intellectual debates, or both.
At 3 a.m. in another room, I did not remember the light, but the movement of shadows, the silent fall of snow, poetry with no words and music with no sound.
At 3 a.m. in this room, the blinds knocked against the window as if they were were desperate locked-out guests - though perhaps they wanted to go out rather than come in. The wind tore around the trees, the grasses and the adorable little houses outside. The light was dim grey streaked with pale gold from the roadside-lamp, and I wondered why my windchimes were not singing.
20 June 2002, Thursday, 11:36 PM
Alter ego of dandruff
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