Perhaps age and not the dawning of eternal peace, who knows. Wind blows down Main Street, bringing nothing but more darkness. There was a woman once, there was a motel and a bookstore, and there was a long drive away from it all alone. This this, too.
There are murder zones and fill me zones and feel me up zones but no love zones? The car skids a little turning, the universe executing this casual flourish, a reminder of how little control we actually have. Dad was Catholic, eastern Massachusetts Irish, a high-functioning alcoholic, a brilliant historian, et cetera. Where does the other begin?
In a sense, your physical sight itself is a block unto the real world. Two red birds in the past now. She led me away from the village into an olive grove in the hills, I remember seeing stars wheel in unfamiliar patterns behind her as she straddled me. My starfish soul, my inkblot heart.
Your confluence or mine? Running when panicked might be the title of my autobiography. Anybody else see a blue light where the other's heart is supposed to be? When you know you know.
Pour me another whiskey. I lingered in Ireland as if waiting for some particular ghost or revelation, but neither occurred, and one day in Dublin I decided to go home, where nothing changed either. Yonder hills. You're exhausted, how do you think I feel writing it day after day after day?
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