this blog entry contains sexual content. if you are offended by such things, hit the back button now: you'll be happier. this is the beginning of a new series: insomnia.
the city knows my name.
fatigue, that endless fuel produced so effortlessly by insomnia, grips me, sharpening my hearing. perhaps that is why when the city whispers to me, calls me by name, i hear it so distinctly.
“daniel”, the city whispers in a lover’s beckoning, bedroom voice, “explore my riches.”
the alarm clock screams the time in bold red numerals: 3:49 am.
i arise from bed, my joints protesting only in slightly this time. i look around the room as the light falls across the floor, julienned by the blinds. my clothes are everywhere: no tidy piles, just the flotsam and jetsam of the daily grind standing (lying?) in mute evidence of my entropic existence.
trudging into the living room, the light here is now more of a chiffonade than a julienne due to the angle. as i regard the blinds here however, something beyond catches my attention.
in her own living room across the way, a woman stirs. the lights are on; the blinds, open. she’s dancing very slowly to a song i cannot hear, moving very boldly to a beat i cannot feel. and despite the silence and early chill, it’s sultry. her long dark hair sways effortlessly in time with her hips, cascading over her strong shoulders. with an impish smile, her hands cup her ample bosom, clever fingers drawing forth her long tips with a practiced ease.
her form is lush, amazonian—not some heroin-shooting waif, but a real woman. and the extent of her desirability is evidenced by a familiar stirring below my waist.
“i must see more,” i half-whisper, half-murmur to myself.
so when she smiles towards the left, it’s the first time i notice that there’s anyone else in that room.
[to be continued]



