Scribbles

The days are long but the nights are longer. They sneak up on me and suddenly are all around. Roommates go to bed one by one. The street goes quiet. A radiator hisses but it doesn't make anything warm. I spend the days making blanket forts on a couch in Chelsea, while it rains. She is sad that the man named Obama won't be president anymore. But where will he go? Can I see him tomorrow before he isn't president anymore? She asks what comes next and I don't know what to tell her. The entire week swims around in a mire of its own indiscretions.

Fight. Fight fair. No one knows what happens now.