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  • I talk of the vacations I would take if we had a bright and shiny Airstream trailer; states who have declared their balls of twine to be the largest in the world, cities that have blueberry festivals, counties that have plaques with worn-down names nailed to lynching trees. I imagine a suitcase full of Bermuda shorts, neon colored tank tops, and flip-flop sandals with huge silk daisies hot-glued to the straps. I imagine soaking up local color in a way that would allow me to write a novel of movement, or a batch of short stories that offer a drink from countless luncheonette counters. Prop your elbows on my yellow Formica and let me tell you a tale that has been told a million times before but never by me. Let me show you the way the light slants through the dusty blinds and pools on the floor in fluid-gold and let me help you feel what I feel -- the gut twist and the heart wrench that says, more than any number of words, that we are transitional, we are fleeting.

    Perhaps if I hold my breath I will live forever; I’ll will time to slow to a crawl and intensely examine each moment. When the moments split open, as they always do upon close examination, to reveal the fat-belly swarm of living things used to the darkness of ignorance, I will not be afraid and will not mourn the infinite number of other moments that have passed me by, unheeded.

    My spirit and my flesh are lacking; something has been removed or was never added. I like to think we all feel that way and that we're all looking. For something. Or someone. A lover or a partner, an answer or a question. It’s always there, a brutal tickle to the brain.
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