November 23, 2016
I ask a question. It floats away. I lose track of it. It doesn't lose track of me. I'm held in limbo where questions are forbidden. I am laden with answers, fermented answers. I'm drunk on answers. I need answers to survive. Questions are anathema. They give me gas. No matter. Try as I might, they keep coming. They scare me. A man stands in front of me and threatens to light a match. He looks like me, but he isn't me. He hasn't got the right rhythm. I'm different. A lit match would solve a lot of my problems.