Bitters

A day comes and goes without my knowledge. The blinds are down, the music is loud; there's no telling one moment from another. She writes and says We just don't have that much work for you after the end of the year, and I can't help but think it's a sign it's time to go. Perhaps it's sooner than you planned, but what is there to wait for. The miracles you've been scouring the South Island streets for haven't come, have they?

And now this story, it gathers potential. You see your slew of unfinished books in cupboards and on shelves, you smile at them dearly still and know the symbolism they incur lying there. No matter. You weave around you scores and scores of letters, of words, they keep you warm at night, they keep you sheltered through life. It is such a dreary world out there, does it not only hurt and tear at your flesh? You are better off in literate dreams, and you build it, now. When I was little, I read Alice in Wonderland and believed with all my might in the possibility of such silly madness.

We have to believe in something, after all.