And something about my room and the days I spent in the window light, overcast sky, my desk in the corner (I was in some classes) It felt like this: austerity combined with emotional frailty; weakly venereal like the feeling of coming too fast. My room was quite empty.
I ate frozen blueberries from costco and cheese and good eggs, fried very hot on cast iron, and soft boiled eggs. I talked to Ben and squirmed, laid in bed languid and longing in the morning light.
2. I caught a fever in Berlin walking around in the snow in my rain jacket and both pairs of pants and I ended up in the suburb of Wannsee in the house of an academic couple who had died, the wife after the husband, I think - but not long after - though their plants were still alive. There were monsteras and other plants like that creating beautiful silhouettes in the window against the little cloister yard, thin wet snow on the grass. I remember sitting there alone playing Blood on the Tracks on my phone speaker and weeping.
I was sleeping in the deceased's bed and the woman taking care of the house was walking around groaning from IBS-related problems. Early afternoon maybe - it was always overcast then so hard to tell the time. Drifting into consciousness to find myself stiff with anxiety and fever-cold against heavy layers of quilt.
I had woken thinking about 2024 winter, mid January to March, part of April maybe, when my twin bed was on the floor next to the radiator and I led this kind of austere life taking two classes and driving out to the suburbs three days a week to knock door to door for a painting company. Suddenly the feeling of that time was so eerily immediate that I could taste the food I was eating then, smell the room I lived in, and the freezing Winnipeg air of that winter.
3. Anyway I think that remembering all of this suddenly and so vividly that I taste the chicken burgers in my mouth, and so nostalgically, means that time in my life is over now, and I am someone else.