Long drunk talking with the roommate last night. Clouds of smoke continually rising to the ceiling fan. He got out his old notebooks to read me his high school poetry. The pages were covered with bloodstains.

"Yours?" I ask.

"Yeah, it's like that at that age..."

"Yes it is," I say.

Old records on the stereo. I gave a name to the manuscript that had no name, and thus it began to breathe. Began to move its little flipper-arms and take its place beside me and the others as we move through this cold world.

Somehow we wound up watching Ian Curtis on the television. Ian writhing in what cannot quite be described as agony or ecstasy. The hollow drum sounds.

I'll break them down, no mercy shown...

Heaven knows, etc. etc. The world rimmed with black. Karyatid Ians then, the sound beginning to echo and spill. Red circles on the wooden table like bloodstains. I kicked over an empty winebottle staggering to bed. The roommate and I both agree we're glad to have spent this time.

I just finally remembered the word on my lips as my eyes closed of their own accord.


Home.