panda beats

bruised in the morning, waiting for a storm. we make a living out of talking, and expect something to be done. why should a feeling in the middle of the night dictate the truth we speak to each other in the light of the demanding afternoon? Afternoon is indeed demanding, my favourite time of the day. dishonesty is difficult in the harsh heat and light of two o'clock to six o'clock. even if you lie in the afternoon the afternoon won't allow me to care. it's so demanding we all feel like sleeping.

why don't we talk serious in the afternoon? our days are nights, when we think we speak with refreshing clarity over a glass of vodka or beer, making deals and striking a balance. but it's easy to be smooth at night, when we come out of our shells, understanding the drama of an evening's conversation, knowing that the night makes us more than human, and afraid of mortality.

in the afternoons the fan blades spin slower, the spaces between drumbeats get longer, the air gets thicker. as the limbs get heavier so too truth and lies both are harder to find. drifting off sprawled on the floor of the room, i wish the rest of my life was an afternoon.