9.19.2003

Dreamt of the sea again…

This time I stood with my back to the waves, close enough to feel the spray as they crashed. I stared into the filthy, salt encrusted window of a small black bungalow that sat alone on the flat, foggy beach. The window ran the height of the bungalow—it must have doubled as a door because I couldn’t see another opening to the structure. Someone was there, looking back at me. I lifted my gaze, slowly taking in legs, waist and chest. It was a man wearing a dark jacket and tie—he wiped at the window from his side of the glass, revealing his face. I was surprised to see that it was Fitz, smiling unabashedly. Now that I had made him out, he took up the entire window. His head must have skimmed the ceiling. Everything was as it always was except his hair, which was cut in a stringy bob that was the complete opposite of his usual neatly cropped GQ ‘do. What the fuck, I thought, What the fuck happened to his hair? I woke up and immediately remembered having read NME earlier that evening in a freezing Barnes and Ignoble cafĂ©. With the exception of an article on the demise of Limp Biskit, every other page was about The Strokes or some other greasy retro rip-off band. It was depressing as hell.

That’s where I got the shitty wannabe hair from, I thought. I looked down and saw that I’d fallen asleep in my clothes again. The right sleeve of my sweater was rolled all the way up as far as it would go. I sighed and yanked it down. Once, I woke up with the corner of the sheet tied around my bicep—the knot wasn’t perfect or anywhere near tight enough, but the idea was there.

(the idea is always there)



wisdomgoof





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