hot hot heat

I got millet for brains today. It's the heat and the insomnia. One causes the other, one does not cause the other, post hoc propter hoc. Yesterday, I saw someone I haven't seen in eight? nine? years sitting in Think Coffee and I didn't want to say anything at all to her so I just found her profile on Friendster, which linked to her blog, which profiled some of the poetry she had recently written. And there she was, sitting in the middle of Think Coffee with a pen and a pad, perhaps writing the same poetry that will be read by generations of socially inept ex-acquaintances even as new generations of poetry are being produced. This summer has been a hallway of mirrors; you see what I mean?

So I'm so tired my eyes hurt to be open. Last night I puttered around the gym, lifting heavy things and setting them down again, feeling no great sense of accomplishment but just a damp wonder at the trivialities I cop to fill all the minutes of my day. In a fourth floor walk-up in Prospect Heights with an all-skin (snake?) rug, I watched an episode of Freaks and Geeks under a whirring ceiling sitting on a red futon as buoyant and large as a liferaft, then lay on the ground on thin sheets passing themselves off as a bed and talked with a dear friend until I had sufficiently shamed him into making out with me. Is that fair to say? I'm happy but alternately too hot and cold, with a boundless appetite, at the moment, for strawberry popsicles.