Tonight would be one of those surreal moments I would write a stupid poem about if I still wrote stupid poems.
Driving home, I lecture myself on several points while I steer inattentively, my fingers sticky with my own blood*, the hills and hollows washed in harsh, grim moon-white as the sparse clouds part. I unlock the front door, get into my cold, empty house and find things inexplicably and dramatically out of place: a heavy air vent pulled out of the floor, a cabinet ripped off its hinges--like the place has been searched by someone with only the vaguest ideas of where humans store valuables. Without meeting any real explanation, no ghost or invader accosting me, I forget to be afraid. I take down my hair and eat fudge ripple ice cream dreamily out of the tub, my breath showing in the black air of my unlit kitchen: alone, ecstatic, manic, forgotten, apathetic, and exhilarated. I think about blood. Maybe now, I think, I can pass out. (I have a blood phobia.) But I don't actually really feel like it. Tonight, I don't feel like being afraid of any of the things I'm actually afraid of.
*Swordcraft, inability to cut straight, repeated irresponsible use of a razor blade
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