always seems those days are the ones in the emergency room. don't feel right. hot. spaced. having a hard time. who is thinking of me? who am I thinking of? who can I, how can I, think?
i keep saying, why am i still here?
what have you been up to?
no. talking makes me feel more relaxed. makes me feel safe.
what do you mean you have to go?
there's a perfectly good bed in the second room.
a TV, a computer, ice cream, vodka.
what else could you want?
i haven't heard from her in a long time. i keep calling. usually she answers.
i thought, no one would know if something happened to her.
how would anyone know? who would tell us?
what? yeah.
we talked yesterday.
i know. i was talking about today?
who would know? who? tell me who?
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2 comments:
I really like what I read. Those questions cross my mind too. I noticed you cuz you like the movie Despair, which is pretty rare, believe me. I see some Dirk Bogarde, in your posts, unusual for an American. I am a French writer (8 published books) and translator from English and Russian. I like what you write, that burden seems genuine, for a change.
Bravo.
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