No Poem Is the Only Poem. No Story Is the Only Story. No Kings.
They get off the bridge and weave through the streets, and are soon downtown. Even though Pablo’s only been to that building once, he already remembers how to get there. There’s the same street with the broken lamp, and the mural of a Ferris wheel painted across a brick wall.
We have all woken
frightened in the night,
listening to thick
drops of falling bees,
Henry dreamt about Mad Men, and he had become a writer for the show and sat around and watched his words come out of the actor’s mouths. The one Tylenol PM he had taken before bed made his dreams more intense, but he couldn’t tell if it was the drugs talking or something trapped in his brain.
Such Fine Boys might be a good place to introduce yourself to Nobel Prize winner, slippery Patrick Modiano. It seems to be a kind of reminiscence of his prep school days, a distinguished subgenre.
This isn’t the play I thought I was in, I say, when I go to bed, again, without you. It’s not the part I was first offered, I tell myself as I lie awake.
In the middle of our conversation, well their conversation, someone from the table facing us came over, handed me a note, and left. Eagerly, I opened it. My heart sank when I read the words: “Don’t Fucking Stare!”