At night I dreamt of pelicans strung up in the oaks by their beaks, choked in Spanish moss, the storm’s winds blowing them down. Cars sliding through gasoline, smearing their bodies into the street.
At its essence, this story is about existential amnesia. What do we need to remember? What do we want to remember? And what’s the difference between them?
No matter how much paper we push around in this life, or the next, or inside the crumbling filing systems of our own minds, the termites are coming for us all.
In retrospect, it’s obvious to me that I’m writing about my desire to feel a part of something greater than myself. I know that’s an impossibility, however.
The couch is more of a loveseat. It hardly seats the two of us. On it is the pillow and blanket I’ve been using. This is the longest conversation we’ve had in over a week.