The eye of the storm is eerily quiet, it pads you in a vacuum, in a hangover, the heat keeps you indoors with the windows closed, it’s a metaphor. You try to deduce meaning from your deflated balloon, from the swirls of your returning Darkness in the periphery, from the patterns you discover only by their contrast. There’s a fuzzy outline, but you can see it taking shape. There’s a 1,000 piece puzzle on the coffee table. You use it for practice.
The doctor says the results will come in soon, the walk home from the bar says you are back in New York, the client asks if you live in a house, everything is a ridiculous detail if you ask it. Sixteen years ago I asked the universe for a gift and was given a miracle. I book a mansion in the upstate, tell my friends it’s the only thing I would want we move forward in life in ine way another. And maybe another will be brilliant, too.
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