Work.

It’s a late shift, quiet and a little dreamy. Dreamy? Not in a sweet way, or a pretty way. More like a Hopper painting, things are kind of distant. Pastel tones, gentle faded signage, it’s muted. It’s a late shift, quiet...
I stand at the urinal... my bored eyes, fall onto a crack, just a little black hairline on the pastel blue. The line runs to the ceiling, and down to the gleaming white crest of this urinal. Just at eye height, a small piece of the wall has come loose, and fallen from the line of this crack. I think about how far through the building this crack could exist. This tiny hair-breadth, of movement, the building breaking, before my eyes...

Friend's House.

Here in this toilet (I’ve been here before - see the 11th march), I’m seeing things differently; where before teal was, now is just light blue; obsidian, now a rough black gloss... a familiarity that dampens any excitement, dulls the thirst... I want to use the toilet and go. Nothing against it, it’s just a toilet now.
It’s warm in here, the radiator, radiates this small room with ease. I look around, looking within myself for those naive wide eyes, ones that playfully imagine...
I notice in the bath tub, on the white, a spider, an eight-legged silhouette. I suppose he’s stuck, because people say that spiders can’t get out of baths. That’s why we see them there, more often than other places. I’m alone, He’s alone, were not even in the same world, so it seems. Even sharing this bathroom, with this animal, we see each other, but we are nothing to each other. So I don’t help him out the bath. It wouldn’t seem right.