diary / by Edward Mullany


Or, instead of lying there, doing nothing, waiting to see if sleep was going to arrive, or if I was going to arrive at it, I’d get up and pull on my clothes and grab my keys and leave the apartment, and walk toward the end of the block, at which point I’d turn in one direction or another, based on an impulse whose origin was, to me, unfathomable, and continue until I became tired, and was able to locate the subway, and ride a train back to my neighborhood, where, if morning had begun, people would’ve woken and have started appearing outside, so that I’d feel as though I’d experienced the night in a way that they had not, though I’d also be aware that the reverse was true, and that whatever I might’ve gained from remaining conscious, and I wasn’t sure I’d gained anything at all, had cost me the equilibrium that was evident on these people’s faces.