I have a metal pie-plate screwed into my head with awl-pins and prickle. It keeps the sauce from dripping out and spoiling the front of my shirt, the same one I have been wearing for five days now. Things are getting darker, an absence of light filling up the space between me and the ceiling. I hear say, even though I am going deaf, that the absence of light signifies the on start of a fugue, a complete and utter mental collapse. Either the ceiling is falling or I am (en)fugue(d), on the brink of madness, even though the difference seems negligible. I would like some pie, or cake, or a small sliver of cheese manicotti. Perhaps there is some cake, pie or cheese manicotti on the ceiling. Maybe not, maybe I’m in a fugue but don’t know it, sauce dripping out of my head, manicotti, pie, cake, a bent pie plate, the front of my five-day old shirt soiled with insouciance. I am going to bed, please don’t call before eleven. I beg you, please.
