sleep

I love sweeping. I think sweeping is one of the gentlest things a person can do. Whenever I’m at a place like a restaurant or the stage of a theater and I see someone in a uniform with a broom, and when I watch their backwards and their forwards, the progressions and the regressions, the opposites that make up the swaying at their elbows, I fall a little in love, especially if they are meticulous. That means they can maybe love somebody who is alive, even if it’s not me. And maybe they already do, at home, or a stranger they see everyday on the street; maybe they are already very meticulously in love. I am not equating sweeping to love: that is too obvious. And if somehow I am, well I don’t mean to be doing it.