I am giving away the past, piece by piece, I am growing fainter every day, is this what you wanted?
The art of the apology, and the darker art of not actually meaning it.
Bed sheets drying in morning sun.
The Forget-me-Nots I planted last summer have taken over that corner of the yard, Chrisoula says what is with you and wild flowers.
My heart reminds me I am going to die soon, what's next.
Okay, so where do you keep your treasure?
Still Corners' The Trip on repeat while I work through a difficult paragraph.
Wanting to fuck certain women certain ways, wondering who I don't know who wants to fuck me and how.
All the machinery I cannot stand, walk away from, wish others would walk away from as well.
Peacemakers stumbling through a long night towards a distant fire, the fuel for which turns out to be their stumbling.
What keeps us alive after the body gives up, lays down a last time?
We are not allowed to possess the pleasure of the other.
I sleep now in the hay loft, alone on the hard floor, waking earlier than usual to prayers I should have started praying decades ago, but it's okay or it's going to be.
Kites tumble out of the sky, land in the horse pasture, we gather them without talking, return them to the children who know better.
Everything is broken, yes, but that is not the end either, you can see how still the world is some mornings, as if rehearsing for a funeral.
We only want to be helpful, why is this so hard.
Dad pleads with me to stop writing about him, reminds me it's mostly lies, to which I say yes but lies are a kind of truth, which is true, and to which truth he does not have - nor did he ever have - a useful response.
Judith Butler's observation that a text always has "more sources than it can reconstruct within its own terms."
What arises in language will not undo language, can we stop with that old dream please.
The chapel is nearly finished, soon I will be able to walk away, leave it for the next couple whose difficult love will re-reconstruct the way.
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