So Billy Joel’s We Didn’t Start The Fire is on, which I am attempting to memorize along with Yakko’s World. Yes, this is what I do on Saturdays.
My neighbor will be hanging his suits and ties on the communal apartment clothes line outside. I think the shuffle of slippery feet on linoleum and the rumble of elderly washing machines will be the only symphony that will ever fully mean Spain to me. Even more so than the push-pull rhythm of the sea? Yes, yes, yes.
Last night I watched a moth attempt to commit suicide in the greasy kitchen lights. I shut them off, but was left with the certainty that the crepuscular insect would find death without my intervention. This morning I walked through the house barefoot, expecting to see an electrocuted corpse under the refrigerator, beneath a table. There was nothing, but I can’t shake the thought that somewhere – wings folded, shedding dusty scales, charred eyes – is the body of a creature I was the last person to see alive.