one thing i've learned is that if i swear loudly while sprinting to the shower, it actually makes me move faster. it is like shouting when you kick something, breathing out in little tssts that accompany and so magnify each punch. i am clamoring with a violent lateness through the early morning and my roommate says, "did you hear our neighbors working on their stomp rendition until 4am?"

did i, jesus. my actual reply is something more along the lines of "fuckity fuck fuck." the period is the bathroom door slamming. i've overslept by about a million miles.

ten minutes later i'm at the bus stop. my hair is flopped heavy like soggy jungle vines but clean. i dont know what the neighbors were doing, but in my half-dream state i understood it as a fugue. they were playing a fugue for the apocalypse on the apartment complex as though it was some tremendous multiple-percussion set up. when the deadbolt came undone and and somebody walked into the kitchen, i resigned myself to the fact that they'd come to kill me. and then i realized that people dont often make toast prior to partaking in a giant fugal butchery. and now! a coda by toast! to-a-to-a-to-to-ast! the small ding saved my life. like a lighthouse on the shores of consciousness.

i want to ask them what they were on, man. but, hell.