Closed

Bowl of soup, piece of chocolate. Buzz in the energy-saving bulb in the right-most bookshelf. I keep meaning to fix that. Taste of magnesium smoke. Fireworks so close last night I couldn't make sense of it, those far-away mystery sky-crackers, bright flame and spark-spit in people's hands, balconies, propped in the pavement snow, miniature blast patterns in the gutters on my walk home in the burnt-out hours. A cat hair or two on my coat and the display village of coupledom left behind at the party.