Got nothing to say tonight. Earlier I’d celebrated that the sun hadn’t risen before I found myself in bed, but I still thought about the way he might feel at my back. I imagine her on the roof in the summer again, arms thrown back, laughing brightly to the way her body flopped around to the rhythm of the song she had created. Dusk was sneaking over the branches and I wondered if I would make it home before the dark fell entirely, though I knew the answer. Glasses on my face, I worry and bother about the plastic frame in my peripherals, a chunky line between clarity and fuzz, and I do mean this literally. We’re making moves in slow motion, a poorly made action film to fill us for an hour. In his most pretentious voice, he says that it fulfills the violent and masochistic tendencies we can’t realistically exercise ah blah blah blah, there’s the rain on the window again, or is it the bugs slamming into the glass of the light on the ceiling. One feels more nostalgic, june bugs in thinned out coffee and citronella wax. Eventually, my eyes will grow tired of the floaters and bits of crackled mascara falling through their lashes.