I make a movie for the man driving up on his motorcycle, wearing his black backpack and the squirrel running towards me on the telephone wire.
A silly girl, making up stories that don't even make sense to her.
And as they go, I feel like I sound too much like someone else and wonder who that someone else sounds like, but I am not well-read or hip enough to know. And why do I think making movies comes in words when I am thinking in pictures. And can pictures and words be the same?
Which leads me to think that maybe that three month long stint on Prozac wasn't long enough or maybe a cosmic nap will snap me out of this creating tiny epics on scraps of paper I find in the floorboard of my car. Maybe I should clean my car.
The leaves on the trees hanging above the alley look up at me and laugh at my looking down on them. My eyelids heavy, I laugh back, right before the dream takes me.