cloisters of the mill

i burst open the door of the living room, as i do, in a rapid jerk of getting something done, the simple act of entering a room and closing the door so the heat would stay inside and keep my electrical bills down - i get things done, when i get anything done, in a quick jolt of action, cause the energy is sure to drain at any moment, gotta act quick while i have any impulse at all - the act itself is something close to lame, and always mundane - i re-sorted things, discarded things, transferred other things from utility drawers to the one little drawer of mementos cause there was no lingering utilitarian use for them, barely any keepsake use either - was almost ready to discard this one pile, but next to some unjustifiable excess of nostalgia-tinged junk was a plastic baggie stuffed with little conical native-american "encens" sticks, what i use to call "chlorine cones", cause they had that hard edge to their scent that wasn't bb's cup of tea, but at one point, she'd decided to try a new incense brand, just for a lark, and it had ended up a reject, in one of my drawers - so i sparked it up, which was a novelty, but also an old habit long-passed - and when i burst back into the room from the kitchen while making toast, the gust from the interior door-swing spun the smoke trail that had been lazily pluming sideways into an upright column, sudden vigor, looking like a standing ovation, for me

and sure, cause smoke don't need sarcasm - i'll just let it billow, and tickle my lungs for a while, a mild difference - eyes a little sore, but for a novel reason, the air being a bit thicker, a bit cushier - things to bounce off