Danse macabre;

I’m characteristically thinking too much and too little on a Monday.

The new boy N behind me has set up his black and white photographs, he has this dreamy 1950s Leica film camera which takes gritty, washed out pictures. He lays claim to the monotone cubicle, I have the colours of journeys in mine. Photos of photos will follow. Already, his gf seems to have similar tastes as mine – a minimalist aesthetic, Etsy, Kikki-k and cats. I have laid claim to two pictures of spotty felines, one of which his gf calls ‘Kitty’.  

I am reading about aliens, rats in chambers, knives portruding from floors – Stephen King’s Danse Macabre, a little treatise on horror. I have been extra-charmed by King after the thought of him partying in a rock band with Amy Tan all over America. King carrying a guitar. King laughing with a cigarette over a punch spilt floor. I think I dare to read King again, with the fake self-perception that I have grown up and won’t be scared of self-vomiting haunted cars called Christina and standoffs with Las Vegas Freemasonry type characters.

It’s a really good book.

I don’t know how to live this week. Again, characteristically, I have been living each day at a time. To finish that criminology paper I am working on, to sneak in the ending of An Education, to wonder what will happen on Friday. The past Fridays have been as happy as cherry garcia ice cream. I don’t know what will happen if someone takes ice cream away from me. Or something like that. I can’t really express how I feel nowadays.

Irving – I’ve fixed the line and we can talk again soon. I’m going to get a new microphone and new headphones which won’t squeak fuzz when we talk to each other. I might even get a computer camera so you can see me swinging my cat around.

I sometimes feel like I am living each day in one day of Outer Space. Irving, do you ever feel like that? I am thinking so much of space horror because of the book. ICBMs. The Russian. Sputniks. Sputniks as Spootniks. I remember history classes when I was 17-18. Counting the no. of missiles. Counting the change in the no. of missiles. Counting the no. of missiles in the enemy’s arsenal. So in the train today I was thinking of Sputniks. Raining down against the gray skies. Twinkly little aliens looking like leeches.

Irving, we should both set out lists of things we want each other to do. Like, to walk only on the third step of tiles. To make a deliberate visit to the 22nd floor of our apartment/work buildings. To eat an exotic dessert. I will set out a list and you will have to follow, against the pain of doing a zillion pushups. I realize I have never seen you do anything remotely sporty, besides allegedly swinging a badminton racket. It shall be inside the list too.

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