Here’s a new one: I feel good. I still hate myself in that essential artificial log glow way. Yes, the house of cards is a mild breeze away. Yes, the thrum of poetry I used to feel could fill a thimble. Yes, my boots are near collapse, my skin flaking. Do you ever as a writer get a break from fucking yourself in the head. Can you remember dancing in a Quebec disco, your body breaking for the first time. A doctor speaking gently? A pregnant woman on the subway so depressed you could weep for the fabric stretched taut across her body. Now, feel this. Your desk is your temple. Your mind is on fire. Forgiveness rests her gentle hand on your warm forehead. This is your time.
What could you fit in a thimble?
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