A lazy, hallucinatory day

My hands smell like Pake’s oily hide and Noguri seafood soup. The day is hot and open like a cracked shell, spilt with all the harshness of the bare, unclouded elements. The painters thunder around outside like a bunch of interlopers from above, testing the solvency of our residence for a supramassed space medium into their planetary vicinity. Why they want this house and not something a little nicer, like Carl’s refurbished party house next door is beyond me and perhaps beyond them as well! Jake is sleeping below my desk, stretched out like an arrow, a dog sausage ready to be slipped into a hot, flaky croissant. A brownish-orange soup is distilling itself into swirlies of sediment. There isn’t much to do today and that’s just how I like it. A frozen salmon and some month-old russet potatoes will be dinner.