I love those movies & books that let you believe that there is no strong divide between life & death, that lifts the veil--"Kafka on the Shore," "Death Becomes Her," stuff like that.
It's along those lines that I encourage you to live for me while I can't go out, or even get up. If you do it I don't have to. I miss nothing. I'll sit here stewing over words or some form of dread while you GeT tHiNgS dOnE! Kiss a gentle man, climb a rock, get used to driving these roads.
Have fun and tell me the story when you get home. Or, just sit next to me, hold my hand & look at my eyes. I can see you nearly precisely, what you would say—
We should try experiments in co-dreaming again. We should write the same novel at the same time, alternate them page for page, and see what happens.
But, your pretty fkn face’ll face the ugly page that faces yours. Share this rotten side. Us, snotty & vindictive. We really get back at the ____, when we try. Closed suspicion, I hush you to be polite.
Can I ask you a question? I mean it. Can I? Because I think I'll know just what you'll say while I lay here in my baby sled, thinking. New year cologne lingers. I can smell my own ass.
—
I want you to come home and find that I've showered on my own. I want you to come home with leftovers from lunch. Smelling like the beach with a dumb story about how Santa Cruz might be just a little bit too sinister for you, how you're getting used to driving. I'll tell you about how I feel like I may be settling down in my mind for the first time in a while.
What do you think of living in the woods? You don't have to live in the woods.
