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What an idyllic slice of time I am enjoying, listening from the other room Alex snore vigorously like he is trying to suck the night itself up his nose. Maybe if I should intervene, so he doesn’t choke. Then again, maybe I should not intervene. His ability to swig the moment like it’s a soft drink is something I could appreciate. And anyway, there are other things I can attach my attention to, like the bugs outside, which seem to be chirping nervously, as if the stars decided to stay in, and now they don’t know what to watch. We both—these bugs and me—are in the predicament of locating what Alex has found unconsciously. Despite that similarity, I should shut the windows so the bugs don’t climb inside. Sure, I am lonely, but I am better than that. God forbid I share a bottle of red wine in the company of a cricket, a beetle, and a cockroach. Kafka may have been absurd enough to transform his character into an insect, but not so much that he would have his protagonist spend time with one. Literature probably cannot handle so much. Reality can, only because I am enclosed within this apartment, which I treat as a sort of padded cell, an incubator for one who experiences little and muses much. Oh,
ye fantastical evening, deliver me to your fat treasures, assuming they are hidden somewhere in this apartment. I do not want to go far, and especially not in this rain.
