9.2.09
The men in acrobatics of sleeplessness awaken me. Outside, it’s raining. I go outside and the darkness makes me think of a game’s variation: Rock beats scissors; scissors beat paper; night beats both. The drops pain me in the manner of a femme fatale’s bite-kisses. I look at my hands and the fingers that write these accounts and plot this course. Something bad is coming, not a mutiny in the visible sense but a secret battle that I might only record using invisible ink. The men want to know where we’re going; I cannot say for more than one reason. I think of my ex-wives and how long they endured my scheming. I should have let The Bastard have his way with them for all my intimacy: nothing of me to share but dreams that go nowhere, in which I try to complete some puzzle that might be found in a Tokyo Internet cafe. …
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