Its the night before the night before the marathon and I already cant sleep. I spilled an entire cup of hot tea on my keyboard and lap this morning, and yelping explicatives, been exorcising the ghosts in the machine since. Key by key by key, apart and back together.
The process exorcised all the delicate considerations in my head too, how I was profoundly moved by the sight of a near empty parking lot at dusk, how I am stretched thin across the expanse of my own duality.
There is a split second of reckoning while you process the heat in your lap you aren't yet feeling and a cocktail of shock, annoyance, disbelief and anticipation. I imagine the moment of a death unexpected is much like the realization of scalding tea in your lap.
Once I fell out of a truck doing stupid teenager things that seemed like a good idea until that very moment and it was the same moment... para-awareness for a half, of a quarter, of a millimeter, of a nanogram of a second... then the second passed and I was actually being dragged by the truck.
Sometimes I am at the top of the basement stairs and my long white work apron swishes menacingly around my ankles and I think
...this precarious life...
But time and time and time again I find myself mundanely at the bottom of the stairs immersed entirely in the weary task of restocking beer for the next shift. Forgetting the rose pedals at my funeral.
There are ghosts in my machine, no matter how tender my efforts. The space bar, arrow keys, the goin'places keys fucken takin' me across the screen. Shit. Someone of dubious computer esteem told me to throw it in the dishwasher. THAT ISN'T VERY TENDER AND WORRISOME, NOW IS IT?
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