Woke up hung over again. Moan and turn toward the window. This bed is level with the window, a bird’s eye view into a neighbor’s window. Windows are just windows not souls into eyes. Any bird can view. I could roll out of this window, and fall five long stories to a quick death. Five long tales. It would be easy.
“The fall would be so quick you probably won’t wake till you hit the ground, then it would be just like a flashlight turning off.” Marco teased me. I thanked him for the refreshing insight about my level window. My life reduced to a flashlight. Something to hit over our heads.
Somewhat comatose looking at white lace curtains in the facing window, neighbor’s window, building across the street. Lace curtains looking fresh and clean dove like — not dingy and brown like my curtains. We are pigeons. Pigeons can be doves, ask Warhol, ask Picasso, ask Matisse.
Dear neighboring building repainted, and power-washed. Do you stare at our a faded lime green, stained from time streaked from pollution old tears of moisture. Do you see art in our grime? Finger painting masterpieces done by cats?
I see your angel awning hanging out jutting out like it’s baroque, or art nouveau. Why bother to guess?
I have a headache from the thinking. The night before’s drinking. It’s Easter morning. Holidays are sudden events. We colored bird’s eggs with crayons days ago, It was already here.
Bird drinks at Feste’s and Rachele cornered me made me promise to paint color crayon to promise to hide Easter eggs from view for all the guests. All those dirty pigeons.
My head throbbing, stomach rotting: falling from the windows another morning in Žižkov.
A Chatoyant Fleck 