In order to reach order, she says, you must allow for chaos. You survey the disaster that is your supposed sanctuary, try not to consider what it might reveal about you. Here is a woman who has lost her mind. He speaks of food like it's a language, of language like it's a story, of stories like they are possibility. You feel irreparably damaged, feel scarred along your nerve endings, like your eyes reveal your disability in how the sides won't crinkle right when you smile. Remember a time you weren't broken and wonder how things could have been different.
They are not.
He speaks of poetry and the mere mention softens your spine. You take more comfort in silent ink than beating hearts, none of this is new. You buy a shovel for the car, as the snow at last begins to melt. Christmas arrives in the strangest year yet.
You asked the Universe for this. Did you make of your wish what you could?
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