Man, what a week. Unpredictable energy popping out of people like popcorn. Rage. Frailty. “Where’s my place in things?” I feel like I’m falling through colors and icebergs and danger and funerals and toys and hidden romances, and there’s a little bit of blood on everything. I hear the sound of breathing and the ghost of old songs half heard. It’s the holidays, and Saturday, and there’s a wind blowing all the words away. The newspaper goes blank in my hands, and my hands look foreign to me. I feel like we’re all spirits revisiting the days of our earthly lives, leaving little messages for the truly living. A December morning.
–John P. Shanley
Curated via Facebook, Dec 3, 2016