I ram toothpaste into a mouth. I rub lotion on a body. I push the body into a bed, and the body moves. It’s dark. Over us, the sounds of a dishwasher and a television clicking on and then off again. I read a book out loud. The next day I will cut down a tree and the branches will fall on a charcoal grill.
The book is short and I read it out loud. There is a mosquito, and it is flying. I notice that I have thumbs. My wife has legs, and I think about her having legs. I picture a Ford Mustang. Our planet is full of assholes.
When our feet are in sand, it’s bright. The ocean holds a boat. I picture a Ford Mustang on the beach, driving fast, maybe even driving on the ocean. I order food and a piña colada. A seagull is flying. I’m on my back and eating crab.
I’m watering our lawn. I’m wearing a robe and looking at the park across the street. I’m inside and listening to a song about murder. I own an XBox 360 and I picture my XBox 360 living forever, its hair waving behind it. I rub my hand magically over our dog, and our dog moves closer. Over time I grow older. I watch my body move.
Sometimes, I move the sharp edge of a knife over my skin and pull the dead skin onto the blade. I’ll rename all of the illegal files I have downloaded into a naming scheme I can manage. I recycle cans and paper.