I hit the reset button—because my thoughts were taking too much time.
And the yellow primrose and fuchsia sweet pea were stunning—how the primrose folded in their yellow pages when the sun closed its eyes, and the fuchsia flutter stumbled up the bedroom windows, tracking its leaves. Tiny miracles against background violence.
I had said too much on a broken motherboard; threw away my memories when the keyboards were switched. Keys were broken and misplaced; cyber-links to the secrets of the universe.
Letters that needed nimble hands. So much elegant music missing still. Initials carved into birch trees—boasting indelible love, but we all know better.
And the flash drive—it could no longer hold me. I lost that, too, in the fallout of cheerful dominos. I had been winning, but the wind sliced my vanity down into pieces.
Perhaps you know how all this feels—and rubberneck, too, at the train crash and tsk tsk, it was going way too fast and the woman with all of her children piled into the careless SUV should not have been in a hurry to get her hair done.
Things come as surprises. Offering up infinitesimal glitters of sun-crash and shattered star. At night, the crickets vie with cicadas and tree frogs for the utmost attention. Before the catbird signals the rest that it is time.
I wrote in the Dictionary of Melancholia, Handbook for Fatigue, Diary of Mercurial Wanderings, Notebook of Promises to Oneself, Notebook of Modified Contingencies, Notebook of Intensities, Coda of Rain.
And slept finally in the downy clouds of my ancestors beating through my faulty emotions and chromosomes. I survived many kaleidoscopic dream fractals and other attempts at nomenclature, but with verbs.
I slept finally for days. And woke up alive.