Abandoned House
I want to get out of the car. And why shouldn’t I? It’s parked, isn’t it? Outside a house. An abandoned house. I like abandoned houses. I like to look at them. This one sends me a silent message. It’s tired. Tired of being in this world. Fixed to the earth, it’s tired of this house-world. This one wants to get plastic surgery, become a theme park, move to Florida. Hey, that reminds me. Maybe I’ll look you up. Yeah, I’m going to look you up. Are you still in the world? Do you have a house? I saw King Tut’s sarcophagus, once. In a museum. Gold, calm, still. Face of a girl. Nothing inside. Like a dream of deep space. Did you know that sleep is the third leading cause of death? Even if you don’t like to think about it—even when you’re driving through a tunnel— sleep is death. King Tut looked quiet as a river. Asleep, calm, dreaming, with his eyes wide open. Something seemed to float there, just above his quiet stare. I’ll bet if he uncrossed his arms, he could have reached out, touched it. But the weight of that gold weighed heavy on Tut. He lay there, steady, motionless. He wasn’t going anywhere. I wonder if he was tired? Tired of staring. Tired of dreaming. When I get out of this car, I’m going to go inside that house. I’m going to look around. Maybe, see what emptiness looks like. From the inside. Maybe, look out the house’s windows. Just look out the windows, think about all those rooms with no one in them. No one dreaming. I’ll bet it’s quiet in there. Quiet and empty. Like a dream. Like a god.
Appears in Pink X-Ray
