Deep and Wide as a Margin

Goodnight Eileen, it's what drunk people say when they're looking for their brown coats or they're painting in the kitchen. It's what you'll overhear when suddenly it smells like soap and cigarettes in the record-shoppe. It's what I'm trying to remember while I'm cold and my pants are still wet from tripping in the snow. It's what I'm doing instead of fixating on the baroque way that your living room looks. I'd feel guilty but you insisted, so I'm sitting here by myself under a muddy looking reading lamp. It's too tall and two of its bulbs are just dim widgets sans bloom. It wasn't a very long walk but it was deep and I'm super cold now.

Lets say, rather than a scrolling line that suddenly bursts into flames, let's say instead that we imagine this narrative is a singular voice of reason and it's completely composed of togetherness. It's as though it has one purpose that will be revealed in an amazing arc of shine. This arc could be the probability of statistical anomalies plotted along a very long vector or it could be the simple truth. It could be the eventuality of beauty as unfolding time has determined it to be. But then again it could also be round on it's free end. It could be blunt and deadly to observe in the dark rain. Regardless this is what's rolling around inside the mystery of our little box. It's like the lightning of our time and we're all just tiny little dancers shaped like broken polygons. 

You're singing through the bathroom door about something else entirely. You open up and through a deep cloud of steam you say, Come to think of it a good door is a good greeting, knock wood. Doors are everywhere they're like socks. We need them for warmth and protection but they have to work both ways right... They're the limit of our autonomy and they define our commitment to civility. Community's begin and end with their doors. Look, You swing the bathroom door back further. See this here, You ask me.
Can you see that this door's askew, Pointing out that it absolutely refuses to fall off.
It's shape's held in place here and here, Then your towel droops. Do you see the strips of bent sheet that're angled back, holding that brick in place. They're slathered in this sticky black tar. Someone dead a long time now left it like this. But in all of the years I've been here it's kept on shutting and shutting. Still I'll bet we can make this door truer. I think we could try a little harder. Our hearts are strong and our air's free. I think we can start right now. Then after this one we'll go to all the old doors. They're everywhere and they all need the something. We can rethink this whole world one door at a time.
But you're naked, I point out.