Subject to Change. Draft 3. "Hope"
Still no call from her this morning. I got a letter. My unemployment got denied. So holds the hole in all the usefulness that I am meant to be.
Far away in the distance, I am watching an old 1960s home movie about how I dug myself out. The person is someone who isn't me and the images are far away. I am thankful that I feel enough to want to perish. Past meets future in some quantum possibility where I am a boyish lout and have never heard of a suit. I could do it.
I got an email this morning, too. From a woman I used to date. She made me a strange offer. I cannot tell it The hills are on fire, and she lives on one of those hills. It is our annual burnt sacrifice to the world here in Los Angeles. Luckily I don't live close enough to get the ash. This time. What we renewed seemed best. But the strange New Age chimes she left hanging from our entryway make frantic noise in this wind.
I want to think of these as the flames of all that I falsely desired, though I don't know how to change. I don't know how to love. I don't know how to do What It Is I am Intended For. I want to say that the Married Man is dead but that simply isn't true, either. Have I outstripped my own use? It seems likely.
These flames are somehow comforting. I remember them every year. There is something truly confident about them. Steady and passionate. I had been so faithful. Many fresh things to fuck around here but I'm not sure I remember what to say anymore. Too many people around me keep me on the straight and narrow. They know me as an Upstanding Man. What can you do? I'm balding, things work ok but I just look silly to them. All these peacocks and serial texters and something about The Game. This is devolving quickly.
I can't hear the fire. I can only see the plume of smoke today. I know they're evacuating people. I wonder if she went to stay in that neighborhood over there. She feels distant. I wonder if she's with that friend. I can't remember now, or maybe her husband. They broke up, too.
All I can hear today is the wind, and I can smell a slight smell. I am...just. Barely. Awake.
Far away in the distance, I am watching an old 1960s home movie about how I dug myself out. The person is someone who isn't me and the images are far away. I am thankful that I feel enough to want to perish. Past meets future in some quantum possibility where I am a boyish lout and have never heard of a suit. I could do it.
I got an email this morning, too. From a woman I used to date. She made me a strange offer. I cannot tell it The hills are on fire, and she lives on one of those hills. It is our annual burnt sacrifice to the world here in Los Angeles. Luckily I don't live close enough to get the ash. This time. What we renewed seemed best. But the strange New Age chimes she left hanging from our entryway make frantic noise in this wind.
I want to think of these as the flames of all that I falsely desired, though I don't know how to change. I don't know how to love. I don't know how to do What It Is I am Intended For. I want to say that the Married Man is dead but that simply isn't true, either. Have I outstripped my own use? It seems likely.
These flames are somehow comforting. I remember them every year. There is something truly confident about them. Steady and passionate. I had been so faithful. Many fresh things to fuck around here but I'm not sure I remember what to say anymore. Too many people around me keep me on the straight and narrow. They know me as an Upstanding Man. What can you do? I'm balding, things work ok but I just look silly to them. All these peacocks and serial texters and something about The Game. This is devolving quickly.
I can't hear the fire. I can only see the plume of smoke today. I know they're evacuating people. I wonder if she went to stay in that neighborhood over there. She feels distant. I wonder if she's with that friend. I can't remember now, or maybe her husband. They broke up, too.
All I can hear today is the wind, and I can smell a slight smell. I am...just. Barely. Awake.
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