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)


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