I'm still listening to that recording

Can you see me now? All wrapped in wool and denim. Perched on rattan, socks swinging. Staring at an apple in low light, glancing at a phone. Hair tied in knots and belly full of yesterday.

The hum of the refrigerator keeps me company between key strokes. I long to smoke inside but drink water instead. It isn't cold out, I'm just too damn comfortable in my lucid procrastinations. I should sleep but I rather write and listen. I feel like this is a step up from yesterday. At least I find myself finding myself on a stairway.

There's an embossed silver watering can to the right of my right hand. It's inexplicable visual proximity to jewelery is absurd. I use it almost every day and still, can't help but imagine where it came from as it floats from mother in laws' tongues to jades.

I'm still listening to that recording. And the fridge. I listen to the fridge everyday. Trapped in a happy melancholia. I'm batting the inevitable. Holding on to the repetitions. I don't want to escape this feeling. I want to unravel it forever. Lost in someone else's thoughts.

That last bit, the whole bit: I'm unfounded and cranky and unpolished. But I'd rather be here, listening and listening and listening to this terrible recording and writing horribly boring prose than anywhere else.