Like a dog twisting in folds of the blanket, anxious to get out in the snow, I continue to think in terms of what I don't have. There are always consequences. And jewelry. One can look lovely while feeling lonely. Deeply – even dangerously – lonely.
Is it all a narrative, all a story? We characterize ourselves but what are we really? The shoe fell of the ship and sank quickly into the gray sea. Later, a dream of empty bottles, mermaids bobbing where the waves rose and fell. We are all part of whatever it is, without exception.
Mothers who drive buses. Horses who canter to the field's far edge then stop and stare as if thinking. Our capacity for selling never ceases yet our wares change from year to year. The truth is we can grow accustomed to anything. Like, say, dogs.
The row of books one hasn't read grows longer by the year too. The stage on which we prance grows narrow and dim. Dancers remember us in drunken moments. We are all part of it, this thing I call God. He means the part of the brain where language is not language yet but only sound, maybe only the idea of sound.