04/11
          Ba-rump. A belch like a toad's croak, maybe a fog horn.


04/10
          He walks as if without touching the ground, not fast but light, delicate, slow, composed, even elegant. He says nothing that doesn't need saying, and listens to only that which hasn't already been said. He always wears a frown in public, too busy thinking is he to remember to fix his face.
          When we met my bag smelled of alcohol, of the vodka and juice which was leaking within it, and my jacket smelled of tobacco smoke.


04/09
          The eyes open to sunlight, and a breath of breeze touches the flesh. Though now awakening, the mind holds no memory of having come to bed for sleep.
          What foul acts were performed the night before? The things that are remembered could be from hours spent either awake or dreaming, but no differentiation can be seen between the two.
          Violent amounts of coffee will be necessary this morning.
          The rest of the house, upon exploring further into its depths, is found to be in a similar state of confusion. The place reeks of unfamiliarity; a towel is crumpled on the stair, a sofa is facing a wall, a spatula and a frying pan are on the floor in a box of old oranges, an oily wok is on a chair's cushion, two mysterious beers have appeared on the dining room table, and a slippery layer of grease covers most of the kitchen and dining room floors.
          Contrary to a previous stated belief, this house is not beyond the touch of time, is not frozen in a separate realm. No; the house wants us to think it is unchanging, so that we let our guards down, turn our backs to its devious scheming. This house is very much alive—the destruction last night was not performed by us against the house, but rather the other way around. The house is trying to kill us.
          The roommate appears as I set the needle upon a Chopin record.
          “Last night,” he says, “was the worst night of my life.”
          I nod in agreement. Then he shows me his hand. I am appalled, and disgusted.
          “Didn't you hear me screaming in pain?”
          I forgot about that. I was very confused as to who he was calling a son-of-a-bitch.
          “I burned the fuck out of my hand,” he says.
          Indeed, his hand practically looks mutated. Most of it is a raw red, and is covered in spots with yellow bubbles. A hot oil burn.
          What will become of us? We are not safe here.


04/08
          I didn't write anything, so I won't pretend that I did.