Your life becomes the protagonist’s, anyone’s, and the shiny sealed package of story is yours, is slathered all over your shaved calves like sunless tanning cream, and you are walking, marching alone across a bridge into the sunset, really you
The hex rains down in vials tagged with its antidote: once you sip, the cure is in your hands. Therapy taught you that much, the common parcel of your affliction and its chemical-chatter prescription. A breakdown of youishness blends into
Finally, after all these nights away, a dream coughed up the perfect metaphor: L.A. played on an IMAX screen and I sat in the theater. The control-box voice narrated smog like smog was a monarch butterfly on a filmstrip soundtrack.