Virginia Woolf killed an ant last night. I’m blaming her. I feel slightly guilty. That fat grape ant. It was quick. On the dresser. Keep to the kitchen, lady. I have nothing to say. I keep twiddling something. I keep staring at myself as I go around. Then around. I want to pound it out on the desk. Stick my face in the dough. Smell yeast. Smell it rising. What’s a word for the space between a fingernail? I keep staring, smelling old skin. There’s a word for it, I can feel it. I just can’t f**king get there
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