Windstorm. I spent the week by the window, watching the elm’s hundred-year-old branches, twice as thick as my thigh, being stripped off like twigs. The wind advanced a half block, so that my windows are now only feet from the roiling gusts. The windows rattle and rattle. I sit there, in the gray November light, and watch. It seems like watching is my job now, even if I know that the windows might get sucked out by the wind, might shatter. I thought about moving my stuff into a room without windows, about moving myself into a room without windows, but there’s nothing here that would be missed. I feel clean and empty. And only a little sad.
I think I saw you, sniffing around the buildings at the wind’s new edge. Hi.
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Part fourteen of the exquisite corpse with Darryl Joel Berger. (Listen to lucky number thirteen here...)