On Welcoming Smoke Signals

I wake up not in my house that I am terminating nor in the other house that is permanent. I wake up in another house in a twin bed. I am wearing all my clothes from yesterday. I am grainy with strolling Brooklyn, the High Line. My skin is dry. My stomach is empty.

"The fire department came and brought an inspector," I am told later when I go downstairs.

I am not in my home, I am supposed to be going home. I am supposed to already be home, hours from here, taking apart my home and reconstructing the pieces to fit like Tetris in the car. When everything fits the game is not won; the blocks do not disappear. They cement and firm up. They become permanent when you carry a thing from one home to another.

I am supposed to be driving north. The point is to terminate.
What goes up must come down.

"We were having a fire," I am told.

I am left alone in the house that is not my house. I pilfer the kitchen for chicken and eggs and coffee. There is a can of seltzer. There is sour cream that is two months old, but I find out only after I have eaten it. I use the majority of what's left of the sea salt. I make a dent in the cinnamon. I cannot open the pure vanilla. Chili flakes. Black Pepper. Distraction. Procrastination.

I do not leave until the evening in a rainstorm. I am supposed to be north with a Tetris cabin in my car. Instead I am embarking on my voyage as the sun sets, roads slick. The yellow caution symbol of the car sliding blinks from time to time on the highway.

I think of how many goodbyes I have said lately.
How many have been meant as goodbye, see you soon, or just ciao.
How many have been goodbye and I will try to stay in touch.
Or goodbye but I am still thinking of you after we part.

How many times lately have I told people goodbye as in, I am not ready to say goodbye for good, I am not ready to terminate me. I have ended conversations with a post-script that says because I cannot die yet. It is in plaintext. I deliver it by word of mouth. The gesture in sign language is my hand holding yours. I may additionally whisper please.

I am driving upstate in a rainstorm wondering if I will slide off the highway or another car will lose control into mine. I am driving upstate wondering if my cabin on the cliffside has finally slid down from the rain's erosion, the frame being supported only by car jacks underneath. I am wondering if the indoor fusebox that was reinstalled outside has finally struck spark and gone up in flames. I am wondering if the supraventricular tachycardia from high school ("large amounts of caffeine") and college ("caffeine," "stress," "emotional disruption") will return for last kicks.

It would make sense.
It would all make sense right now: an end.

I keep saying goodbye and reaching for hands.

In this weather most people keep themselves pocketed.

Entropy would always make sense if we knew it was coming.

When I finally get home I realize it is my last night. I am strung on coffee and stressed about not being packed, I am going to bed instead of saying goodbye.
The death of being situated, there is an I in situate and so there is too a U.
We have eat in death and ate in situate. So which comes first: the act of survival in death or the conclusion of a placement? A conclusion can be the end, as well as the climax.

I have a normal heartbeat right now and am falling asleep.