I’m home, I just got home. Home is where the heart is. The heart of the home is the hearth. The Vulcan heater looks at me, dormant and cold. I leave my suitcase near the door, next to Kurt Vonnegut, who is on the floor, a last minute discard before leaving for the airport. While Mortals Sleep. I’m tired, so tired. But I turn the heater on, the stiff dial releases the gas, or however that works. Whoosh. Flame. Heat. Silence. It’s early, too early to sleep. I fall onto the couch. Another whoosh. The stench of myself washes over me. Sticky, itchy. Need a shower. A shower for an hour. An hour of power. Power nap.
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