Details

Thirteen dog-eared pages, pauses in

the story. Seventeen stubs in the ashtray, brown

with crushed black tips, holding memories of

lost embers; a dirty spoon, unwashed plates and

swollen eyes. It is the weekend and you have

not been sleeping. Thirteen thirtynine, the watch

reads, it would be time for lunch, were you hungry. There is

silence unbroken by the rattle of spoon

against coffee cup. This book has three hundred and fifty nine

pages, you have not slept for two thousand and twenty five minutes,

thirty nine books on your shelf are unread, the three bottles of

beer in the fridge are not enough, the fan is turning a grayish black

with accumulated dust. These are details. Note them.

Colours of your life, measured in heartbreaks and infinite boredom,

populated by details, lent color. Made complete.