This is what held me back: the inability to say, “Kids, my hand is so filled with things, so many bustles on Tuesday morning in a man’s arms and eye squints on sunny middays with smiles and sunburn. And there is also so much nothing, a lack, a space occupied and now holding abandoned tents. I’m a speak-easy on a Sunday at 4 am, battered and grinning with gapped teeth. I am the needle we keep just in case we need it, we don’t need it, but just in case, just in case we do. I am a picture of words, uneditable but holding ink so tightly that a fraction of pressure could burst our seams. We are magnanimous, child. All these things have no meaning, except in the second we say them.” It is the act of vomiting the mind that clarifies you.


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