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It’s a story. My grandfather breathes and slips back against the couch.

There is something in the walls.

A month, a week from now it will be tomorrow, and I will make eggs and toast. I will waste time. I will not write anything but stare at what others have written, not reading, staring.

There are manuscripts everywhere. In boxes. Books. Old notebooks. Looseleaf.

The bus at :15 and :45 past the hour.

It’s difficult. The pen moves without direction.

The book is kind. It splits, divides. Serrated frames and skylines.

The hitching post and the 45 minute ride to the airport with a man in the back of his pickup truck.

The pen keeps moving without direction.

When you lose your daughters, my grandfather says.

THere is fire in the sky, a kind of thunder.

Our house on the mountain is blue and crumbling. Two flights of metal stairs, chipped pain and baseboard heat. The wind int he walls and through the doors. We keep the heat at 55 in winter, wrapped in blankets in one upstairs corner waiting for midnight.

There are too many empty pages. Blank. Desperate. I imagine filling them. It sounds like drumming.

I try to be a poet. Scribble senseless things and hope that the space between connects them.

Something genius.

I haven’t read in weeks.

A throbbing in my head that manifests as a light in my hands.

I haven’t written in weeks. Coherently at least. The words spiral and condense. Abstract shapes and sounds. I am only fascinated by the space beneath.

I think too little of my reader, too much of myself and my publisher – an error.

Your reader is always more brilliant than you. I may write the words but my readers will make them actually mean something. Anyone can scribble. Anyone. The art is in the conversation – the triology of words, myself and you.

There is nothing left to be said – only imagined between us.

Possible. Resonate. There are ripples in the air, stones – invisible.

When you lose your daughters, my grandfather says and slips into the couch. It’s a story.