Pieces and Neuvoe

 He ended his life with something that was, in the eyes of many, futile. He could not believe that the earth rotated. He believed that the sun must revolve around the earth. Death was easy and not as painful as he thought it would be. It always hurts more to be cut than to be cut. And so the man came to the end of his life with his own beliefs. The earth thought, I have a man who died for me, and the earth shed tears of emotion and let them fall to the ground. The earth saw a dilapidated building and a man with an unrefined face in a grave.

 As she undressed, her curvaceous body was naked. A few thick, black nipples, a flabby side, and lines of thighs and buttocks that dripped with vitality. As I traced the stems of the flowers on her chest, I realized my paintbrush was shaking. The naked body was glorious in the hazy afternoon sunlight. I realized that I didn't need my brother-in-law's name there. As I painted the peak of the flower on her back, I grabbed the camera from the hip and angled it up to capture her backside. With my large hand, I grasped the tip of the hair and stroked it. It was the only fiber in my flesh.

  It's a dark night, lit only by sodium lamps, and a man is following me down a deserted alleyway. I try not to pay him any mind, but then I look back. It's the same guy who forced a smile at me, and I drop my coffee cup when he deliberately places a bug on the desk in front of me. The light turns red and the passing churchgoers laugh bitterly at my rejection. What church do you go to? There's a man with a knife behind his back like that. I'm about to stab myself with it, but suddenly the knife disappears. There is only the empty floor.

There's a place for writing in the strangest places. It might be naive to believe that a place has a special power over you. But when you're in a well-manicured park, watching people walk by, it's hard to believe that. And my hair is soft, and the coffee in my mouth is sour, and the new traveler from another country unpacked in a corner of a tall hotel today, and I want to put off brushing my teeth today for some reason, and the lecture was long and boring, and the shopping arrived today, and the song in my ears makes my lighter load considerably lighter and my special human being even more special.  And so I am somehow proud of myself for going to pray at the Calculation Cathedral. 

 After creating a day to force himself to play the violin, Boram was able to savor his parfait a little more deeply.  He had spent so much time consuming himself with the opinions of others. Perhaps we spend too much of our lives trying to fit in, and it was a surprise to her to spend part of her weekend in the cold wind, chirping birds, and the emptiness of falling petals. The time spent on behalf of others is beginning to empty; they are increasingly filled with unapproachable boundaries, and the back of a middle-aged man, with perfumed incense breathing through his veins, turning away from the railroad tracks, is painted on the canvas. They will play again what has been played. Once you know how to do something, it's easy to do it again. That's what makes it so inviting, a stuffed shadow in a canvas of poverty.

The streets are a little chilly, no dogs roam, and the sun is warm. I realize I'm in a small town, and I'm gazing at a novel I've written with difficulty, and I'm trying to find some decent art on the radio. In a cafe, where it seems hard to find anything to do, a song is playing and I'm savoring this elusive luxury. I write slowly about words, and very lazily about the things I have to do today. I realize later that luxury is something you have to force yourself to find. I realize that it's slower to listen to nothing than music.  I have an iced Einsteiner from takeout in my hand and a neighborhood full of young foreigners walking by.