very nicely

drunk.
the recorder lady and her boyfriend with the 1990 computer are asleep legs splayed mouths open.

"heels?" he asks, "you're making an effort"
i tell him i'm not.
blisters rub at my heels. we both know i'm lying.
it's ok. it's the game we play.
we'll never/always be mediocre.

write life only slightly out of proportion.
no need to distinguish between
sky and sea. horizon? no.