I finally went downstairs and turned the heat on this morning. It has been raining now for days, much less like summer today than I had hoped when I heard the thunder start in the early morning. No run. The rain came gushing down, and though it is quiet now, the chill has returned. Inside again. Like last night, the desire for so much more.

It is Friday night, and I am in a shopping mall–any shopping mall, it does not matter. They are all the same. I pass the stores, their manufactured signature scents drifting out to the middle, the music, the consumer-enticing ambiance. Williams-Sonoma is a pristine ode to cooking, a diverted desire as I think about it, cooking being that sensual release for those who have either given up on sex or have a lot of it–seduction or its surrogate, depends on the context, depends on whether I get to fuck you tonight, or if I fulfill my need with a plate of fresh figs, drizzled with honey, tangy yogurt on the side. Yes I would feed you these miniature cunts if you were here. But alas you are not.

I wonder as I watch the various people who have gathered here at the mall tonight: the young man with a paperback and a ballpoint, stopping, marking passages as he sits seemingly oblivious to the world around him. A man paces, gesticulating, as he yells into a cell phone–he is not yelling, but it is big, important, whatever he is saying, and perhaps everything he says is big and important while he waits outside a store, waits for his name to be called at the restaurant, waits. Most people just walk by, in pairs, alone, in packs. It all seems like paper.

I miss you here as I go about the ordinary days and my daydreams, I imagine the waves and the starry skies and the low clouds and the confinement, the freedom, where nothing matters, where everything matters. But here I am, with my dreams of clattering streets and cardamom, diesel fuel and coffee and bread baking as the rain falls somewhere else. Here I am, wishing for more time, wishing for no time, for time to disappear completely, for time to evaporate into the air, with the space, no space, no boundaries, only dreams.

And so I dream, and write, here, in a warm house, a cozy house, a house heated to stave off the summer chill. We are somewhere else.

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