fourteen and a half hours

No amount of booze or television can silent the manic mind like sleep, so last night I retreated to bed at the early hour of 930pm.
Sleep: A precious preview of death.
I finally removed myself from bed at noon today. I spent 14 1/2 hours in bed and could have stayed there forever. A coffin of mattress, box spring and cold sheets; a throne for a dying king.
In a few hours I'll be in Indianapolis seated in the balcony of a crowded theater, watching Sigur Ros perform. I suppose this concert couldn't come at a more appropriate time. Countless mornings, afternoons and evenings I have lain in bed, alone and in the dark, listening to their sounds of shifting heartache and epic explosions, trying to find a note or drum roll to crawl inside and disappear forever.
Earlier today, a vision: There I am seated in the balcony and everyone is still, mesmerized by the tides of sound rolling from the men on stage but I'm conscious and aware. As the sound crescendos to a moment of timeless and exquisite beauty, I reach into my coat for the shiny black gun, hiding one (and only one) bullet, and the sound of guitars, drums, chaos, beauty, life, roses, death and victory rises and floats and expands and (all of this in slow motion) the small, cold cannon is exposed and kisses my hot temple and my final thought: So beautiful.

mc