the fan spins

Some days I feel tired right down to my bones. The clock ticks, the fan spins, my eyelids become heavier and heavier. I can hardly keep my eyes open. I just want to sleep and sleep, climb into bed for a week or more. Perhaps then I will have some energy, muster up some zest for life. I know it’s in there somewhere.

Maybe it’s the heat, the still air, lazy flies. Men sit in doorways, crouching and shirtless, cigarettes hanging from their chapped lips, glazed eyes and lined faces, creased from listlessly following hundreds of passing footsteps. They seem tired too, almost hazed. Maybe it comes from a lifetime of this heat, with salty sweat and dry beer the only moisture in sight.


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