Marcel Winatschek

The List That Starts With a Mouth

Friday comes the same way every time—not triumphant, just persistent. The week grinds itself down to a nub and deposits you at the other end with forty-eight hours that are technically yours.

My only concrete weekend mission was this: stick your tongue in someone’s mouth. The other nine slots stayed blank. I thought about filling them—songs to queue up, places to drag myself to, things to eat or drink or finally fix—but the list resisted. Nine empty lines felt more honest than nine invented obligations. A weekend is mostly undefined space anyway. One real impulse, the rest improvised.