My night has been filled with caffeine, potassium and nicotine. There are too many people stopping to use the bathroom. I have to constantly check it for vomit, as there is a weird smell coming from around the corner that I am yet to locate. I am waiting on a phone call. Almost anxious. My hands fumble with my phone as I slide it around my pocket. Tonight there was a sky big enough to swallow everything whole and I could see all of it. The clouds have nestled in to the mountain's toes and skirted around the rounds of tree trunks to find resting places near their roots. Nothing obscures the sky, and she shows me stars that I can't recall but I'm sure I've met before. I imagine that Vertigo has taken on humanity as a zombie-like virus (contracted from cleaning that fucking bathroom, I'm sure) and it has flipped my view of the world upside down. The sky is a sea and I'm cannon-balling head first into a dark blue of obscured truths. [Obscured truths in a way that these truths are known to someone, but that someone is not me, and I have yet to meet them, or ask such detailed questions.] But because it is space, I am falling, and falling still, and I crash toward space and wonder when the quiet starts. They say that there is only quiet in space. That's how I know I'm not there yet.
The phone call I took directly after this moment hand very little to do with space, or quiet. But I'm glad that's the case. I couldn't have heard many long distant, crackling reassurances and devotions in space. I'm glad I'm not there just yet.
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