where does it take you? i know my place

I now see what the problem is: there is the absence of music.
How does one settle from their day and into night without melody? m-e-l-o-d-y. I am hungry.
My hands glide the black and white blanket; I've finally found the music and instead of duvet covers I grip dusty-with-dirt rocks, my arse nestled in cupped hands of grass. I can smell the smoke perfectly well, as if someone were holding a baby's burnt carcass right beneath my nose and then it's gone with the fly I swat away from my face. The night is cruel, for sure. It can breathe only frost and make smoking a tedious task. All of me: my pores, nipples, tenseness of muscle scream at the stars; USE YOUR GAS TO LIGHT A FUCKING FIRE!
I don't want to be here anymore. Next track.
Now I don't know where I am. It could be my room. The place I've become accustomed to labeling as my 'comfort zone' for years? It doesn't feel that way, though. I feel strangely exposed as though I am lying nude on the floor among a cocktail party, surrounding by a herd of pompous paint sniffers. Or maybe I am unzipping Myra Hindley's dress from behind. Draw the curtains away; here are my teeth. I smile to nothing. Nothing you will ever understand, anyway. Centuries tick by and I am still lying here, my electric blanket roasted me slowly; my blankets basting me to a glow. Her zip is not caught on the side lips of fabric; it just doesn't want to come down anymore. It's probably this Jazz track; much too classy for the occasion, I'd say. Still, it makes me smile. Look at my teeth!
I don't think she's smiling, though. She slides out of my grasp and nudges the exposed wooden floor with her leather toe. I think she wants me to dig. I don't want to, though. It'll smell too much; and I plan on sleeping soon. Maybe tomorrow, after I've purchased my new phone and can invite Ed Gein and Jeffrey Dahmer over for a tea party for the occasion; and Myra will be on my lap, as usual.