I stop at a convenience store to get the local newspaper, wondering where I might be able to pick up the Sunday Times in this town. I head over to Burger King for some breakfast, and queue up in a slow-moving line. My mind gets lost in "What to eat?" Hash browns, yes. A croissan'wich; the vegetarian diet goes out the window when you're far from home. Croissan'wich, but what kind? Bacon/egg/cheese? Sausage and egg? Both? Neither? Something else instead? Orange juice; something nutritious, at least...

And coffee, right? But regular or decaf? I'm in a zombie-like state right now, teetering on the edge between sleep and wakefulness, in the neighborhood of both wide awake and dog tired; if the insomnia abates, I can head back and get several hours of sleep instead of the sporadic episodes of sleep I've been experiencing. The band doesn't leave town until early evening, so there's plenty of free time.

I start thinking about edges. I'm on a lot of edges these days, and all this without much drug input. The edge of asleep and awake. The edge of sanity and un-sanity. The edge of love and obsession. The edge of rawk and sick-of-rawk. I abound in troubling, must-resolve edges, fucking me up. Is "I don't need drugs to be fucked up" a boast of achievement? Or a sign of a need to get high?

I abound in edges, and in ambiguity. The ambiguity of my role(s) in the band, both musical and non-musical. And, back home, the ambiguity of Eric's gender when you look at him sometimes; the ambiguity of his intentions, and of my reactions and feelings. I had a dream last night, during my last stint of sleep. In my dream, we were still circling around each other, so to speak, then there's some moment where we both decide "fuck this"; we cease dancing the Ambiguity Dance, and suddenly we're on a couch or a bed unbuttoning each other's shirts. I'm thinking "what do I do next?" Then Eric looks up and says "Uh oh. Busted." I look up and see Amanda, arms folded, silent, pissèdly glaring at me.

That's when I wake up. Why buttoned shirts? Were we wearing posh suits, like in some Robert Longo painting? We pretty much always wear t-shirts and jeans in real life. Why me and Eric? He doesn't cross my mind all that much, enmeshed as he is in his town's hardcore scene; I only run into him when I'm a scene-tourist catching a gig at one of those venues. I'm quite happy to be a thousand miles away from him and his band, wherever it is they're playing right now; I'm equally unhappy - no, three times unhappy - to be a thousand miles away from Amanda. Does any of this stuff mean something, doc? It's my first vaguely homoerotic dream. What do I do next?

I reach the front of the BK line and decide on regular coffee; if I'm really tired, my body will sleep anyway. If I'm not really tired, then it's the start of a new day and I need my caffeine. I pay, grab my somewhat-fast food, eat, feeling watched all the time, as if the heartland locals here had a ringside seat to my mind, and were following along intently, while chowing down on their popcorn and hot dogs and Cracker Jack and swilling their cups of beer. Did they see me unbuttoning Eric's shirt? I'm busted.

At some point, I calm down, maybe as the dense population of morning-rush patrons began dwindling down to the few nowhere-to-go diehards. I stick around, and pad out the morning and reach the early afternoon, sipping slowly my free coffee refills and browsing through the newspaper. Sleep is now out of the question, but that means there's a lot of time to kill. What do I do next?


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