We begin with lies. As I wrote now twenty years ago certain half-truths are marching on my doorstep. Asleep for hours, waking to pee, struck by the light on the gardens and swing set. Subject to entropy, subject to story.
And yet. One dreams of a challenge to their faith, uttered in a commercial setting, and wakes chilled, "on edge." There is the fall and the fall and perhaps other falls too. Clicking of keys, dog claws, disapproving teeth in the late nineteenth century.
She looks guilty, said someone of Lizzie Borden's photograph, clearly unfamiliar with the case. All wrongs are ultimately dismissed, even those that result in bisected eyeballs. The afternoon rose and fell in waves and my stomach hurt, following. Searching for buttermilk recipes is a way to "get rid of all these apples."
We cannot resolve the sentence absent its context. The authority problem is the real problem. Certain texts are lost and other simply promote the stunned affect of lost. I walked on stage and everyone applauded and I understood then just what I had given up and what remained to be divided in two.
Oh, you. My fear gallops, wears spurs and over its head waves a black double barrel. The ego presides over gruesome executions, ever delighting in the sure availability of death. But then again.