Listening to Bjork�s Vespertine over and over again. Much-needed salve, especially after a traumatic last night. �
Inside me a black hole widens, swallowing memories and running water.
Alone in the attic, I forget that I have friends, far away from this place suspended above the streets of Berkeley, away from the sounds that bustle and thrive.
Progress means nothing, here in a place that entombs civilization, curious artifacts gathering dust in silence: cracked dishes, smashed lightbulbs, a shattered coffee-pot (apologies to Mel), plastic medical i.d. bracelets, waterlogged books, cigarettes in a stagnant pool. Above me stamps the beer-sloppy feet of an ogre, the slumlord, rattling dust and burnt wood from the rafters.
�
I watch Beast, with his head busy in a can of tuna, tongue dragging at minute remnants. The can shuffles across the linoleum, a sound desparate and awkward.
�
Quick, snap a picture: the shadow of deep discontent flickers across the face, a cleared table, the mud-tracked carpet.