Writing by hand by the glow of a monitor like it’s Christmas morning—sitting in darkness, shoulders hunched and leaning forward, comforted by the effort to draw heat from a feeble, single light source.
Sweetly, softly stoned, my monitor is my holiday now. That and the music, a beautiful distraction from lumps in throats and hearts in pieces.
I’ve had enough of good-byes—I’m switching to see ya laters.
The older I get the more appealing this leave-taking becomes. There are fine lines bracketing my smile, and my hands and throat are somehow growing old without me. Especially my throat; everything is slowly sliding south. It appears to be a convention of ageism to which the rest of me has not been invited.Continue reading “Of Necks, Newspapers, and Death”→