8:236) chris abraham 21-AUG-1998 10:38

living underground is not like death. it does not have me feeling maggoty or decomposing. better, the feeling is like hibernation. or burrowing like the way she burrows into my chest or the way I burrow under the duvet, into my sleep. in a world wherein i am all abuzz, where i feel always pursued by madness, success, failure, expectations, and need, telling myself that the bedroom is the place for peace, for sleep, for solace isn't nearly enough. when i open the wooden gate and lock it behind me, i must pass pots of budding plants. consciously toeing into the stairwell, squeezing past the a/c, standing before the glass-faced door.

always cool inside. always dark and quiet. always getting light from above, always seeing designs on the floor from branches moving, people passing, rain falling.

the dark, the quiet -- never enough O2, always a little sleepy. If we were to ever leave on the gas after making a stir fry, we would be goners, my shell and i.

have yet to turn on a PC; have yet to login, check in, read in, jack. just touch. just looks and seeing and the warmth of cooked food, the cold of perspirant class, the slickness of body aroused, the tightness of tired bodies looking for the sleep, protected from the EMF, protected from the sirens and public passions of trumpeting city busses, ambulii, engines that could and doo.

soon, a dog named sue; soon, soirees and whole food and the slickness of body aroused; the harsness of a body aroused, the swallowing of self: the gate swallowing you and me; the stairs taking us, the coolness of under ground consuming, the sheets, the bed, the eating, matications, taking onto lips into mouths, the flick of a pink tongue, and then the swallowing only to merge and find not death but restful sleep.