Chapter 7

Walking home, soaking wet from all the things i’m afraid to really think about – back still sore from the bathroom floor. Eyes still red and swollen, like i’m tired but can’t sleep.

Walking home, thinking about how every piece of discarded trash was thrown away by someone at some time. Alternatively, thinking about how it’s someone’s job to pickup the things that are discarded, and how i am just another discarded thing waiting to be cleaned up, or something.

Drifting down the side of a road, stuck as a wrapper in the wind.

An empty wrapper that was devoured by someone at some point.

Nothing but a representation of what once was, a memory.

A candy wrapper, tumbling through the world whatever way i’m being pushed.

And if i land right, someone might mistake me for my former self.

And they’ll pick me up for a bit before they realise there’s nothing there.

Then i’m back, floating in the wind until someone else makes the same mistake.

I get stuck to my home, floating in through the mail slot. I feel post-dated, like a post-dated letter that showed up before the date signed – slightly out of conjunction with the time around me, and the time i was composed in. And i’m a letter that was post-dated September 12, 2001, completely unaware of something really important but not quite sure what that event should be.

This will be a short chapter, in life and this book.

Post-dated.