What can I say about this moment, this second in my existence? At this very second, I am lying across a dirty unmade day-bed in a dark little efficiency apartment in Washington, D.C.’s Dupont Circle area. There is trash scattered across the floor. Dishes are sitting in the kitchen sink that has been there since October 7th. A draft is hitting my face and back from the window. A combination of vague, distant traffic noises and music garbled from a hi-fi somewhere in the building seem to move gently across the room. My radio, humming and almost inaudible is on the table at the head of the bed. A sports broadcast is being whispered to me– methodically, efficiently. It is dark, a cloudy, gray dark outside my window. A plane is roaring, rumbling through the night sky.
February 15th, 1971
February 15th, 1971
February 15th, 1971
What can I say about this moment, this second in my existence? At this very second, I am lying across a dirty unmade day-bed in a dark little efficiency apartment in Washington, D.C.’s Dupont Circle area. There is trash scattered across the floor. Dishes are sitting in the kitchen sink that has been there since October 7th. A draft is hitting my face and back from the window. A combination of vague, distant traffic noises and music garbled from a hi-fi somewhere in the building seem to move gently across the room. My radio, humming and almost inaudible is on the table at the head of the bed. A sports broadcast is being whispered to me– methodically, efficiently. It is dark, a cloudy, gray dark outside my window. A plane is roaring, rumbling through the night sky.