If I didn't nap every day, I wouldn't have trouble getting to sleep at night. If I didn't have trouble getting to sleep every night, I wouldn't nap every day.
I lay in bed on my back, gazing out the window, one hand idly rubbing my stomach-- feeling the stretched skin, the hardness underneath. I wonder if it grew today. I wonder how much it grows in a day- this mass inside, swelling at the root of me. It lives in the center of my guts, like a pit. The flesh around it swells, is displaced. The only way to part the fruit for the seed is with a knife.
The same hollowbody riff plays out in my brain, a simple bit of melody with a glass slide, over and over. I get fixated on the repetition. It comes around again and I hang on, oscillate, reach for the sound I know is coming. My favorite part of a song is the opening bars.
So pregnant with possibility, even if I already know the ending.
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