Style Exercise. A.

Style Exercise. A.

I awoke enveloped in a dark symphony of colors. The 200 mg Introspectina overdose only produced a deep sleep that lasted from ten o'clock last night until eleven o'clock this night. It was difficult to move… illuminated by the streetlights streaming through my window, my white shirt soaked with sweat. My black trousers are still held tight by the belt, and I'm still wearing my shoes. I have a vision of a red tide that turns blue and then green before my eyes. I'm barely starting to get up… 

On my laptop speakers, Siouxsie & The Banshees' "Cities in Dust" is playing; specifically from the album Tinderbox. (And then, Lullaby!) I remember the first time I read Elias Canetti (or perhaps it was Marcel Reich-Ranicki's autobiography). It was an impression, a modulation of the atmosphere, an intellectual experience comparable to climbing the stairs of an old building on a quiet avenue, like General Canevaro in Lince, a few blocks from my house: asphalt lanes, polished cement sidewalks, walls dirty with soot from old buses, and the always gray sky (regardless of the season).

I've taken a bath in icy water. I hear the nighttime cooing of pigeons at the window. I had dinner of fluffy rice with boiled chicken and fresh beet juice. Through the window, in keeping with this time of year, I observe that the moon is in its waxing crescent. I sit down at my desk and continue working on the files of Robert Graves and Mircea Eliade—by the way, the Introspectin overdose wasn't a suicide attempt, it was just a desperate desire to stimulate dream activity during sleep. A failed attempt.