clean

clean. i want to clean.
boredom has set in. i see the outline of my own nose.
i feel cold hard fear writhe in the back of my throat. it gnaws.
i have to do something to suppress it. so i start to clean my room. not so much clean, as order. to put things in their proper place.
truly, godliness is akin to cleanliness. only if life where that simple; if it only took a moment to order all of existence. if only God cleaned his room every once in awhile. or maybe that's what death is and a coffin is just a small pine toy chest.
i finish cleaning but i'm not satisfied. everything is where it should be but i know tomorrow it'll be a mess again.
breath.
late. (10 p.m.) b.c. aud. Vietnamese janitors eat their modest brown sack lunches.
the man takes his shoes off. his prosthetic foot in one of the shoes. he and his wife laugh.
now, that is the thought that comforts me.
one can clean the world and laugh as if it won't become dirty tomorrow.
the gnawing subsides.
smile. sleep.