Brick wall. Late night brick wall. Did you see it. There, right there. I ran into it. Maybe it ran into me. Relative. Regardless, brick wall. In the face. Nose smushed to the left. I can feel the pocked indentations of the texture of the brick imprinting on the flesh around my nostril. Brick wall. I could taste it. Part my lips, stick my tongue out, drag it along the red brick and the white lined mortal. That’s the brick wall. It’s there, in front of me, as ifI’m laying on top of it, or it on me. Relative. And while I know, as a deep terrible desire-like emotional and intellectual knowledge, that I should walk away from the brick wall. It’s heavy. Or I’m heavy. Relative. The brick wall invites exploration, it beacons my fingers to slide along its surface, begging my eyes to map out every porous pit, demanding my lungs to expand and inhale through my one open nostril the dusty dryness. Brick wall. Late night. Move away, back off, but the brick wall sticks to my clothes like Velcro. Or my clothes stick to it. Relative. Sledgehammer, need to find that sledgehammer. I left it somewhere, it’s either in my bed, a book, or some start to some written work…hopefully not about brick walls. But what ever. Relative.