The apartment I stay in looks like my mind, cluttered and unfinished. I step over litter. This litter is connected by cords to my brain. I get caught in these intersecting lines, making hard to finish uninteresting tasks.
There's the upright futon I sleep in, half covered by a blanket. At night, my whole night universe is under my pillow. The other place, of noise, cars, jobs and women makes no sense to me. The night never lasts long enough. I'm forever unfinished, like my apartment.
It takes ages for me to get up and dressed. Don't want to go out in the maelstrom. Call it what ever you want, but I'm a citizen of the maladjusted and I'll always reminded of that by some authority figure.
My most precious things are in my messenger bag. It carries books where I trace the shadow of memories. Words are just shadows. I trace them in my note books. Memories like what characters tell me as I write in a story or when kiss my children's hands or watching a lover touch this body I carry around. These shadows scribbled in notebooks or on my iPad have strings too. My whole life is a web that I'm constantly mending.