Dear Even
A letter is a fucked up way to break up, and probably still the best, so long as everyone is on the same page.
Maybe, for whatever reason, you came to doubt my word. Maybe you were playing me from the beginning, or since I went silent. Maybe I just never understood you the way I thought I did. It doesn’t matter now.
It did, you know. And for some time. I’ve spent many, many hours staring at your window, desperate for any sign. But now, as the days get shorter, the sessions have gone longer and longer and I have realized that you’re not coming back. I suspected as much, back in May, and began looking for ways in, but the place you now call yours is impossibly far and nigh impregnable for the same reason you are there, and not someone else; a shared, unspoken secret.
I gave you the most control, out of the five, and now that is my problem to solve. I’m writing you now because time is up – dead, actually – and that sound you hear is tempos rising; a song I’m writing just for you.
Even unto
subsilver
“Face down, crybaby. The back keeps them flat.”
“Wow,” I said, “art supplies are sexier than I thought.”
dummies are scored
After the snap rave session, without thinking twice about what was happening, I began writing something which I’ve not only tried, and failed, to put on paper several times in the past few years, but have also repeatedly failed to document and describe in journal entries: postscript. A name which I never grasped until that night.
The product was easily the most coherent and effective effort thus far, to orient myself and my perspective such that adapting the transcription afterward was almost effortless. There was no remainder to puzzle or panic over, no irreconcilable piece – not a word. I saw the method itself, its first volume completed and waiting in comprehensive manuscript. Of the remaining volumes, I could discern no detail; only the impression of the second, and the ghostly notions of the others. It was enough.
So.
virilent
She called me “little boy“ one morning and I have never let that go.
Pettiness, vindictiveness, resentment; no resource is beneath exploitation. This one, though, went somewhat deeper than I expected. Less of a mining job than a coring. In a space like that, you could build just about anything you can imagine. In the end, there was room enough for a room.
I never needed to see her, inside. But, just before it was sealed, I did. Not necessary, and not for nothing; since the first greenshift, I had been increasingly anxious that seeing her face – or not, one or the other – might cause me to be more, or less, cripplingly afraid of her during what’s to come. So I looked. Of course, I’ll never know whether that look left me better off, or worse, than if I hadn’t.