What is Sunday to me now? Now compared to past iterations, past experiences. It had always been a day of melancholy, and dispute. Dispute with myself, argument, determination of goals versus inevitable journeys. I had no goals, only passages. Involuntary but not unwelcome. Destiny has never been up to me. I wouldn’t know how many destinies are predicted, or how accurately they materialize. I’ve had passing fantasies about wealth and traditional forms of happiness. But those fantasies evaporate, the stuff of primal hubris that the gentler, articulate self knows better to avoid. Today is Sunday. It’s always Sunday. It has, surprisingly to me, retained its status, or stature, as the day of rest. The day of meditation, perhaps, if one’s mental tics allow them to reach such a state. The closest I come to meditation is the morning shower, where I almost always sit face in hands for several minutes. By appearances this probably looks pathetic and sad but really, it’s just a comfortable, calming position to assume. Meditation for me always ends abruptly, with something akin to haptic jerks or mental disagreement with the lowering of my defenses. Words might be missed. Opportunities to switch things around and make something new could pass me by if the brain is not available for having darts thrown at it. Today I sat in the shower for well over an hour. Some of that time was spent silent, face in hands, or just staring blankly. A numbness needed to clear itself. Then I dug into news headlines and online content, eventually settling on a Korean pornographer who I think is hilarious. She makes me laugh. I was thinking of E. last night, after I unwittingly found a lengthy email chain of ours. She could write miracles and not even be aware of how powerful an elixir it cast over me. The caressing of sweetness in her concatenations felt like her tongue finding places to play on my body, and in my head. Some of our phone conversations were so powerful I’d be left shaking for hours. I do not know if we will ever return into each other’s lives. I see her online sometimes, but have so far resisted any temptations.  I suspect a woman as physically beautiful as her has moved on to other minds. Today is said to be another rain day. No rain at present but the afternoon should be squalls aplenty. I sit at this desk, cluttered with papers, a roll of paper towels, wires and cables, pens, receipts, a stack of photos I found scattered about on Northern Boulevard last week. Those photos show what appear to be movie makers at some kind of red carpet event. I feel like I recognize one of the people but I don’t know. This desk, this apartment, have become monotony incarnate for me. Nothing new can happen here. It’s just not possible anymore. I had 2 monitors but decided to try a three-monitor layout once again. It seems this place still matters to me, however dominated and trounced I feel by it. This is where I failed. This is where I will probably die. It will be days before anyone finds me or thinks to check in. Someone will find the note in my desk drawer detailing who to contact in the event of the inevitable. This reminds me of an exchange with a dentist last year. I did not like her, she did not like me, and I was happy to ghost her, taking a certain satisfaction in ignoring the ensuing series of almost desperate-sounding emails and texts begging me to come back for more (needless) dental work. I’d be 5-figures in debt now if I went through with even half of what she proposed, this after the allegedly awesome dental coverage from my low-paying job turned out not to be pretty far from awesome. Very little is covered. After this dentist put something on my front teeth she said it would be good “for 15 years.” But she said it with a disdain that infused most of our interactions. She accused me of not seeing a dentist for 10 years, which is a complete lie, but she stood by the accusation. But when she said the work she did would be good for “15 years” I could only think that I probably don’t have 15 years left. So that’ll be fine, thanks for the fresh front teeth. I’m no Mish-Mosh but they’ll look good when I’m rictus in the grave. So I went back to the old dentist, who is less threatening and, simply, nice. The previous dentist wore flip flops to surgical procedures, and responded to most of my questions either sarcastically or not at all. I don’t know what her fucking problem was, to be honest. She was younger, maybe late 20s, for whatever that brings to the discussion. The dentist to which I returned is kind of a shoestring operation, it seems, but they clearly know what they’re doing. I sometimes like to craft short ditties using only the letters of one word. I’m sure there’s a name for that. Weith the word “dentist” I crafted this powerful piece of poetry: DENTIST INSITED I SIT. I DID. TENSE. INDEED, TENSE. I flip words constantly, but never remember to jot them down. By flip I mean spoonerize, or just rearrange. At work a commonly heard term is “split shift.” I call it the “shit splift” but never out loud. I had some winning spoonerisms in the shower today but they are all the way gone already.