who’s house is this pt. 1

i often revel at my inability to derive inspiration from the beauty that surrounds my physical body but i am often surprised by my innate capabilities to derive inspiration from my soul as it streams through these fingertips. even at a young age i pulled flowers from their roots to depict the core of their life into inky pigments stretching across canvas and that - ascended my spirit into an abrupt and never ending appreciation for life and it’s unnecessary desire to exist.

i met a man today named thomas and he has long curly hair that sits right at the base of his shoulders. when i met him he smelled of sardines but only due to the pizza that was hanging from his mouth. this furthermore convinced me of thomas’ state, and mine, as someones who had consumed several substances that night, ranging from flavorful to dangerous, im standing in the kitchen with a wooden spoon in my hand clutching it’s stem and sweating profusely from the nape of my neck. thomas yells my name from the living room and the chair he’s sitting on creaks loud like his voice as his cheeky body wiggles.

‘grab me another slice!’

i react slowly and the stove is now on with water close to boiled and thomas walks around the corner with a frown slightly stuck on his brow and a dog barks loud from the backyard. who’s house is this? is he asking me or telling me im not sure but his curls are swirling in front of me as he twists his head back and forth waving his body im hearing music in place of the dogs bark and the pizza box is opening with thomas’ face guiding towards it.

it seemed like i was making tea because the kettle is whistling in the place of where the pot was close to boiled and i drop an egg into the kettle and listen to the sizzle of the enamel against hot hot hot metal.