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At some point I found myself rehabilitating in the library, what serves for one in this place, anyway. Makes me miss the old loft, Eva… Daisy.
It’s kind of everywhere, not just the one place, but the essentials are here in this room with one blocked window. The light hardly gets in at all but the heat stays, warms the bones of the house.
The heat stays and ignites a perfume in the air of decaying paper, crumbling glues, peeling cardboard. Vanilla, the odor of so many decades in and out of storage. They don’t know it, but the smell of this collection is home. I’ve known it since the first night in Frisco. Since Baltimore. Memphis.
It’s easy to stay here and be this pile of broken bones, closeted away. So many flimsy photocopies that need sorting, the index needs updating.
Found the old Speak & Spell.
Thought we lost it.
