At the gate I said goodnight to the fortuneteller
Sporadic and cagey energy from being snowed indoors, watching as the street adorning autos are snowed over, inch by inch, before disappearing completely from sight. I have a new pair of headphones that I listen to continuously, carrying my listening device around the apartment in a tightly sealed vacuum of caterwauling guitars and violent noise. It’s kind of a pleasant effect. My roommate is at work and aside from an occasional phone call, I haven’t had sufficient contact with anyone for what seems like several days, sauntering from kitchen to bedroom and back again. When you can’t hear yourself, and even your own thought process seems inordinately blocked, you begin to question whether or not you actually even exist. In the absence of mirrors you forget your face, and the same seems true of audible sound, as you find yourself disappearing altogether. Strange thoughts begin skittering across your head. And when you’ve reached the bounds of acceptable thought process, you go outside and shovel the walkway, because there’s nothing better to do, and it seems like a swift strategic maneuver, if only for the sake of sanity.

Out of doors is a nightmare of the panoramic landscape. Everywhere are people frantically shoveling snow in the attempt to unearth their cars before the plow comes back around again. Street teams have assembled to dislodge motorists who have gotten stuck, and a police office stops to help an older couple. It lends an almost pleasant air to the disaster of the storm, watching the community come together like this. Momentarily I find even myself joining in the effort, shoveling some gaggle of frat kids out of the street corner. I work diligently, taking away the snow, before pushing at the car from behind. The wheels spin, with the smooth whirring sound of the rutted tire, before the car becomes free, and as it does spraying me in the brown cumulus that is the street snow. God damn, I say under my breath, as the car disappears without as much as a wave of thanks. Those bastards, I curse indignantly. Fuck all this, I realize, before returning indoors, where the soundtrack to forgetting and being forgotten is angular, and somewhat Slinty.