No Poem Is the Only Poem. No Story Is the Only Story. No Kings.
On the following evening, down in Hollywood, I slid my cell phone back into a front pocket of my trousers and stood outside a bar Reid and his friends frequented. I felt as if I were on a film set in a desert and overcome with the futility of it.
Mita was a colourful raconteur; we would relentlessly hound her for stories. She would twist, stitch, plaster and convey anecdotes procured from her mother She possessed an enigmatic glint in her eyes that would plague us to pursue her more and more.
If you’re alone, "ghanghai" will not attack. Best be completely alone. A month ago, one fired missiles at a woman and her cow. Half the mountainside came down. Grandfather and others picked through rubble. Found hooves and headscarf. No body.
She has twenty tabs open in one window, she needs to clear her head.
...I’m pretty sure what I’m seeing and maybe hearing isn’t exactly reality and is a construct of my own mind, I do know I need to take it seriously, just like the danger presented by a train barreling down the track at me or a poison symbol on a bottle’s label.
“Connie, what are you most excited for today?” she asked.
Connie turned to both me and the man on the other side of me and smiled sweetly. She then looked back at the judges. “To beat the pants off of these two,” she answered matter-of-factly.