Joshua Thorin Messer

I sit on the couch. I read. I eat. I watch tv, I talk on the phone. I sit. I stare. I tape a cooking show. I do not cook. I order out. I finish the book. It’s by a Japanese guy. It’s about a Japanese guy. He cooks. A lot. There is a missing woman. I take a shit. The neighbor kid that’s always crying starts crying. I light a match. I take a shower. I wash my hair. I wash my face. I write a story about a White guy. He doesn’t leave his apartment for four days. He cooks a lot and offhandedly tries to kill himself. When did I last go outside? I put ice and Coke in a glass glass. I drink the Coke. I start another book by the Japanese guy. It’s about a Japanese guy. He cooks. A lot. There is a missing woman. I become suspicious, but this time there is a man that looks or smells or acts like a goat. I can’t be sure. My Japanese isn’t that good. The neighbor kid that’s always crying stops crying. The dog next door begins to bark. I watch a cooking show I taped. I ignore the phone. I sit. I read. I watch tv. It just keeps going on like this. I go for a walk. I revel in the sounds of the neighborhood, the wind in the plants, the smell of the air in the hill above the apartment. I know things are going to change. I can smell it. The pure beauty of the outside, even here in the city, the surge of elatory chemicals in my brain guarantee it. Tomorrow will be different. I sit on the couch. I read. I order a pizza.