read
write
members
about
account

 

datedatememberrandomsearch

May 24, 2014
It is Memorial Day, and the temperature has already blown past eighty. At some point I will have to go “out.” That is part of my “therapy” that everyone agrees to, my going “out.” I think I must cheat on this, because it does not seem to achieve anything. I look around, wondering if the conductor has picked me up again without my knowing. I sniff the air for the naphthalene. No. I am still free. I lay my head back on the chair and close my eyes. It feels almost like a caress. It is also like a sickness.