Pushing the writing into deserts I have never visited, only heard about. Pausing by the lemons, amazed as I so often am at the existence of yellow. Nobody is actually from anywhere. He couldn’t talk much in the end so we were quiet, admiring landscapes and certain trees, he would coo over the oak tree near the driveway’s end.
We live in loops. Corn stubble jutting through snow. Thinking is behind the eyes, yearning in the chest. Yet a critical aspect of effective writing is knowing when to end.
Fantasies of Gilligan’s Island, being eaten by witches, and a sense – hard to dismiss, even now – that dreams were realer than waking. The hanging weight of pigs, the sorrow one feels in the darkness there. It is possible to rely too much on italics? Free coffee which no joke I don’t think I’ve ever refused.
Falling to sleep, dreaming of moonlight filling the bedroom, waking to darkness, Chrisoula moaning a little in her sleep. Nobody awakens, there is no awakening, you have to see this. Bare limbs of maple trees in the dim light, evidence of a text I’d mostly forgotten. I push her away, ferocious and intellectual, a shitty way to treat anybody and yet here we are.
Barber shop poles. We talk quietly at the dishwasher about growing up in an alcoholic family, how long it took us to realize that what was wrong was not us, how we are still struggling to understand it wasn't our fault. You don’t visit this circus, this circus visits you. Melting with praise, is there any other way to be a body?
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