I've been thinking a lot about this book I'm supposed to be writing. I want it to be about my childhood, and about me and you, and about experiences I haven't had yet but I want to.
Sometimes I wish I were a painting. Especially a lot lately. I want to hang in my own room in the RISD museum in a lavish gold frame, surrounded by a pyrotechnic light show. I want Raphael by Cocorosie to be playing, and taxidermied animals to litter the floor, some toppled on their sides with their legs stiffly out.
Maybe I could just do that as my job, sit inside of a frame for people to look at. At night I will sneak out after the museum closes and sleep beneath shivering Sun King porcelain. They all wear the fat uncertain smiles of everyone outside, the little cupids with dormant snail penises squeezing the breasts of nubile nymphs.
Please talk back to me. Please say good bye to me. I can't bear the thought of never seeing you again. It is hard, but please, come out of hiding for me. I will hold my tears inside until I am away from you. You will see two tiny reflections of yourself drowning in my eyes, but I will keep them to myself. You should be sated on my tears as it is.
There is a man, four thousand miles away. He uses the earth to earn his keep. He has kind eyes and when he is drunk he doesn't speak for fear of chasing pretty girls away.
A tiny hope, over the mountains. It is no coincidence my nickname is a fish.
Catch and release. Maybe you could just hold me.
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