What can YOU say in six sentences?
My room in the house on the hill used to shift: sometimes to the second floor just to the left of the kitchen; other times down on the first floor in back of the stairs and you had to come in the window.
Inside, the front of the house was dark like perpetual evening, but much, much lighter in back, as if somehow the sun shone its way through the roof, giving a sort of an open-air feel to the halls where the homeless passed through.
I kind of liked it like that, light and dark, yin and yang, but I liked the light best because of the way it streamed through my used-to-be-white gauzy curtains and cheered up the high-ceiling'd nicotine walls of my room as I lazed on my mattress, dreaming of three-ways with punk chicks, their boyfriends, and toys that made the walls sweat. And if I was a prisoner, and prisoner I was, of what or who I wasn't quite sure, I knew nonetheless that this room was soft time; other places I'd been in, the punishment places, crumbling hotels trapped in '60s dream time--those places assigned you rooms bled of echoes and then aged the flesh off your bones, yanked all your teeth out, and sucked out your eyes, and then sat you up on the side of your bed with the door left ajar, a medicinal reek in the air, as testament maybe to every last horror a celled-in existence inflicts.
I'd once been the freest man in the world, answered to no one and nothing at all, my freedom a cell that encompassed the world...
And now in this dream, in my room in this house, on my mattress, naked and smoking my last cigarette, the sap of last night's adventures still on me, I suddenly felt the skin on my face being baked to old age, my eyes being lifted right out of my skull, and me being whisked off to live with old men who stare out at nothing as rank isolation brings down the curtain on what they'd called love in the fast lane.