Little rubber cockroaches

I have nothing to say. Little specks of inspiration hit me now and again, but the second I sit down to write they are gone. It just took me 30 seconds to remember the word inspiration. I need to go home. I have nothing here, and it seems like my lack of life is beginning to feed off my soul. I'm clumsy, befuddled, confused, inarticulate, and usually drunk. Things aren't bad here at all. I almost welcome bad. I'm just meh, and there really is something wrong with it.

the driver

I wrote the ocean 11 years ago. I wrote the ocean from my mother's bed. The salt swept across my skin, exfoliating my sins. I was salvaged like that weird little desk, saved from its fate of being manhandled by underpaid, overworked city employees. I have a home. I wrote it. I wrote my home across her chest. My lips, salty, spelled out the furniture arrangement on her breasts. That weird little desk. The fridge. Couch. Coffeetable. Bed.
My home is wet and salty.
There's a certain depth in the ocean where I can still touch, but might drown if the current is strong enough. My home is about four and half feet deep. I prefer to wade at three. Occasionally, I get little flashes of bravery, but never do I stay at home. I'm not ready to accept that I might die there.

But.

I know it's there. Comforted by the fact that I can appreciate my little postmodern home from my safety one and half feet up.