i_am_so_tired ovenbird The house wheezes and coughs and snores and keeps me awake all night. I can hear the air conditioner through the walls, every twenty minutes it gags and spits up cold from its dusty lungs. There are feet on the stairs and feet on the floor. More feet than seem possible. Feet illuminated by the blue night light in the hall, feet bringing dry mouths to stand before the sink, to sip icy water from the tap before stumbling back to bed. My own feet are cold. I put on socks. I rub them together like a cricket. I am devoid of music. But the room sings—belching out five strange notes with no discernable source. What WAS that? It doesn’t recur, but I’m left with the feeling that it could, and even the possibility is enough to hobble sleep. All night the house sleeps beside me, rolling over, stealing the blankets, mumbling as it dreams. I resent its breathing body, its turned back, its lack of concern. There were so many nights when I stared at the ceiling and wanted to die and you slept so peacefully, as if everything was right with the world. 260824 what's it to you? who go blather from