And now for some unrelated, unnumbered, midnight prose.
She has sold her bed and bought a hammock.
The intention is travel but for now the vinyl sack hangs, swinging lightly from two hooks set into boards that are set into a series of studs and weight tested for folly and midnight terror flails. The hammock is big enough for two and while she hopes for the unbalance of another sleepily turning form crashed against her own shoulder and hips, she doubts it to happen any time soon. Still, she can almost feel the ache in the joints from the pressure of someone else, and she imagines the gentle creak as a heartbeat. The roof creaks. It whispers softly in the tongues of wood and truss. Nails are metal tuning forks picking up the vibrations of desire. The roof forms a surrogate canopy, pretending to be tree limbs and stars. It watches her as she sleeps - this girl who is no longer a girl but a woman who found herself unmoored from life's expected pattern and thus thrown, headfirst, into the river of naivety and inexperience again - and the roof feels sympathy. It squints shut its metaphorical eyes and tries to become foliage: you can hear the insulation rustling, unfurling, blossoming into a southern summer heat and the bright red flowers of kudzu and weed. The girl turns, pupils rustling under the tent of eyelids, and she heaves in a breath of air, the unformed words of sleep. Lips crack under the artificial wind. The roof yearns, and stretches, and attempts to send the idea of a tumble of fruit, lush and juicy and waiting for morning. The roof doesn't know if this will be enough. The roof doesn't know what else to do, so it shelters over the sleeping form and waits. The roof has seen the girl toss and turn and stand and pace and lay down and weep. The roof doesn't know what to make of this. It only wants to be the places she wants to go.