Sunday, September 12, 2021
The slow death we come to, day after day after day. Light rain, the sky made of rotting flower petals. Letters from both grandmothers still in the box where - like my father - I keep what matters. A crucifix made of smoke but not dissipating and other miracles to which psilocybin introduced me. Twigs scattered across the side yard. Grasshopper bodies on wet flagstone, intact but clearly dead. I fell a long time, woke up in a hospital, nobody else around, a phone ringing somewhere unanswered. Believe is an incomplete sentence now. We make gluten-free chocolate cupcakes, tower them with coffee-flavored chocolate cream cheese frosting, and eat them alone in the dark. Apologies I make, apologies I receive. And the traffic on Main Street slows, and we miss the ones we miss, and we do not miss the ones we do not miss. After all, nobody reads Moby Dick twice, as every text is always new each time it is constructed in the skull. Rolling away the stone, kneeling to peer inside. There was a point I was trying to make, perhaps you've intuited, could remind me, et cetera?
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