n'est pas

My eyes are burning just a bit and I think I may be getting sick again. I actually am getting sick again, or well now let's force this into the present tense roundabout let's just say I am sick again. Every time I sneeze it echoes off the cement and bounces around, the echo loud enough to embarrass even the least-occupied of rooms. By least I mean of course myself and the sole occupant of the couch, though that person is quite lost in the deep sleep process of being slowly digested by the cushions.
And so it's Friday night 2am and so I am sitting on the rug, one thin layer from floor, I am on a stationary life-raft, calm seas, and I am feeling rather flat myself. The volume on the television is almost indistinguishable from my keystrokes, forming an inconsistent texture, one long flat noise eating away at the seconds. I should be on the outabouttowns or at the very least tipsy and attempting something akin to sleep. I don't wear listless well. My mind wanders to irrational territory and gains comfort in problems that do not exist outside it's established borders. No, let's plant our flag elsewhere- I want to lead the next generation of conquistadors into the scant-remaining uncharted territories, namely grey matter, namely so.
Nothing is happening, nothing is the happening, this is about how it's happening all around me, the dust collects and I am taking note. Note.

The couch talks in it's sleep, though nothing remotely transcribable, is it slavic? I don't know any of your dialects. I am going to have a cigarette despite respiratory protests, and maybe turn off the tv, and maybe return to the same Nabakov sentence I am reading over and over, and then give up on writing all together because that sentence sets the bar entirely too high.