I still feel the flesh of that dream. I feel the weight of the lives I took in it – not guilt, but the weight of them. I feel the crisp, tart skin of an apple in between my teeth – the thick skin of it.
Someone at work was talking about dreams today and she said, “I just don’t know what’s going on in my head.” And I said to myself, “you got nothin’ sister. At least you didn’t dream a Shakespearean dream about massacring people and trying to murder your brother.” I very much like my brother. I love my brother. I don’t want to kill you, I swear. I swear, I swear.
Strange day today, though I’m not sure why, have no reason.
Dear _____,
sometimes writing makes me feel like a kookie lady carrying bags around. Or perhaps the writing is only the proof.
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