Blood on the laundry. Face it.

There are days when you wake up in the morning, and those you don't.
When the business of your dream is far too urgent. And those days when you do open your eyes, wake up with your hand on your dick and your tongue rough from last night (vomit or blood sucking, who knows? who remembers?).
You know its time to actually change. Today gets to be a special one. A researsal for opening night. The day you actually see clearly, after all the foul air and fog has cleared. No more coughing or working. No more sitting down when its time to dance.
But not yet. First you have to come up with a transition plan. Finances and feasibility. Estimates. Rolling around on the rug. Wasting more hours while the planes fly over head and the icecream truck passes by.
Its ok. Tomorrows the day.
Then you wake up that fateful day. And you answer the phone. And it's the dream. You are needed, there can be no proxy. And out of duty you go back. To the frown womb, the bomb horn. The foible. The fax mask, the ask tell and the cask of montiado. The Tasks and objects that need no logic to be true.
And then its 48 hours or so and you wake up again. And your pants are on the floor. And the saxophone you stole from your neighbor's kid is on the chair. And you ask for courage from the winds that blow through your apartment, and they respond. "Hell no."..