Restore me to peace. Put me on top of a mountain, a 360-degree embrace, an expanse into which I can dive, and through which my soul can swim. Cue the holy choir, the leakage of many individual silk scarves, pure as the ding of a xylophone, the first raindrop on a placid lake, that twirl together in their ascent, and lift each other. They swell from the valleys. The current carries itself through the crevices of branches, ruffling the leaves, resonating in the cavities and enveloping the cicadas.
Immerse me in a story, in the sheets of two lovers talking at four in the morning in the lamplight. Out of time in their intimate cocoon. Put me inside Julia’s tears as she sits at the opera, in the mind of that man who drove in the middle of the night, in the middle of a rainstorm, in his convertible with the top down. When Tom awoke, he found a woman fluttering in his living room, and he was drawn in by the centrifugal force of her twirling hair, gaining momentum. What did Eric feel like when his son ran out the window? Why don’t we throw up the content of our insides? All the organs, in one repulsive lump. Expel this hideous STUFF, that is so heavy… Make me as without myself as possible.