I slumped in front of a massive desk, a passive patient corroded with failure and dread.
Infant’s Name: A Delivery Date: August 1, 2002
The collective failure of ethical standards
My mother has been dead for two hundred and forty-three days. I’ve had plenty of things in my refrigerator for longer.
Her brown eyes, how a fig considers itself.
the search for a wayward self
Sitting at the bar on Pacific Avenue. With the seashells in the walls. Same bartender from last year, still here, making the same lethal Mai Tais.
Sound engineers believe Alan Rickman possessed the perfect male voice. Early acting teachers told him he sounded like he was speaking from the back of a drainpipe.
People have always coped with flooding, and they learned to cope with death.
four-thirty a.m.
another self emerges between assignments, to follow the dog into winter dusk and watch the snow fall. Not sociable, but perceiving
No matter how you try to ignore it, you look like him. You look like your father.
I’msorry I‘ll see what happens iLife
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