You’ve got staying power, I’ll give you that. And you’ve got language. Like a virus.
I just wish I knew why you’re still writing me.
I wish I knew what you were saying. Your letters are like the blasted sky: they persist no matter what I do or say.
What AM I doing, exactly? The one question you keep on asking.
I’m confused by what’s happening and what’s not happening, and so I’m trying to live, to survive somehow, even though there’s no way of knowing what’s coming.
My number one criterion for recommending movies to friends, before, was when the filmmakers kept me from reliably predicting the end.
Your apocalypse is a mix of Charlie Kaufman and Cormac McCarthy: an absurd wretchedness. Mine is more mundane, about eating and cleaning and keeping warm, keening for what’s lost and connection to what’s here now. No ultra-violence. Though the air is scented with it, like someone is burning tires and prostheses in the distance.
My name is Chris. I’m confused but not lonely or hungry, most days.
That’s all. I’m sick of flourishes.
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Exquisite corpse #24. You can listen to the audio too, if you'd like...
Darryl Joel Berger's #23 is here. It's the bee's knees.