What I think is that I’m a guy playing Yahtzee on the crapper. I’m drinking something draught and eating french fries, watching UFC on mute on the smallest flat-screen at the bar. I’m in a dress shirt and black briefs in a hotel room; I’m wearing the same socks for the third day in a row and I’m holding a tiny bottle of water. I barely notice myself in the mirror.
What I think is that I’m a guy who can’t see the tops of buildings. I’m a guy who notices hats (I notice every hat). This is what I think I am, when I think about who I am. But I’m just grinding pepper onto a pile of peppercorns. I only taste the seasons of one thousand floating turtles on night-fishing videos. One thousand lost ladybugs. One thousand singing hips. I’ve remembered the flavors but forgotten the meal.
It’s been a hot September and it’ll be a warm October. If I could just control the way I feel about temperature, it’d be sweater weather already.
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