In cooperation with Squiggle Dot affiliates…
This place is familiar. It’s a stretching ground. It’s your room. It’s really a room you think is your room, but an exaggeration of that. A Cartoon. A drawing made of crayons come to life. Melting into the plastic and wooden, drywall, concrete, plastered room. Bursts of color into retinas that link a sound. That sound a bit too familiar. It’s an alarm on the ground. It’s you’re phone. Musique Chienne is ringing in hello.
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The car outside that’s really playing music from the BlueTooth apartment across from it, parked and blaring bass —no, that’s the party playing switch hits from passers-by, but wait-wait. No move. Slowly because being in bed only means motion for later. Or just a shrug that lands you at the bagel cart man on a Sunday around 4:30AM only to ask him when he wakes up. “Do you even sleep? Have you ever considered more music? Your mustache is perfect, you know? That Soul Ipsum glare in his eye. A Club Sway that flocks locks of hair across his eyes with a smirk, and a turn of some nob next to the scolding hot coffee makers. Club up on 36th Street with my mans bagel man telling me other people are good people while I dance for body heat.