twenty-three Your house smells like a freezer, significantly warmer (I've turned up the heat when you weren't looking, back down when you awaken), but it's a freezer nonetheless.
There is the hollow sound that catches in the pockets of your home. It's just a place for you, between me and someone else. It is trying to be a home, but you don't beleive it, and neither does your house.
It is a place for you to cook the things you think you've always wanted to cook. You can listen to jazz and settle into a chair to read, but you're so conscious of this as an act. You put on the jazz because you're supposed to. Same for the reading. You're happiest when it's over and you can say you've done it. It's supposed to be the sort of thing one does for oneself. Like how I mention to anyone that I spent a half hour on my stationary bike, reading my roommate's magazine, blasting Otis Redding. Doesn't matter that i loved it...more than anything, it's a way to mark the passing time--a thing to say I did, filling my bank of daily stories.
what's it to you?
who go