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Tomorrow (excerpt from an old journal 02/17/13)

March 11, 2015

I sit on my bed and look at the mess I have made. Pushed by the wind, the blinds rise and fall against the window with a constant disharmonious banging.The floor is covered: dirty wrinkled clothes, sheets and blankets claimed by the cat, the soil of a dead orchid smashed under a towel at the edge of a pile of dirty towels. A paper cup in the window sill has begun to decay as the last inch of liquid seeps through leaving a ring in its place. The mattress has been pissed on by the cat. I tried scrubbing it with bleach. There is still a mark. Mugs of molding tea and coffee everywhere. Books are piled on magazines piled on junk mail piled on books. Paper plates and important documents are stacked one on the other. You can never be sure of your footing. Things have to be moved and stepped over. You are never stepping on level ground. This makes it a hassle to get up and do things. It makes it easy to lie down in my dirty bed. When I look up, I can see the walls with my neatly hung posters. If I look just right, it looks like everything under eye level could be clean, neat and organized. With ambitious dreams in my head, sitting alone on my bed, “Tomorrow,” I say.

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