Dead Letters OfficeI have a repository of text that (for whatever reason) never amounted to much. I imagine most people have one of these: old notebooks in the corner of the study, a word document somewhere filled up with fringes, all of those little scribblings on the backs of ATM receipts in the pile on the night stand, threatening to tumble off into the thin space behind the small bookcase. I like to think that they do not mind this so much — little secrets, little notions, happy in anonymous privacy.
I sometimes go through mine. There is all sorts of oddity in there. There are notes on fireplaces and compass rose made from Penrose tiles. Letters to lovers better not sent (those few I had the wisdom not to send). Lovely little scenes of cloistered gardens in which nothing at all would ever happen: they were so perfect that nothing at all ever could. Lists of instructions about how to make lists of instructions, backwards. That sort of thing.
A great deal of them mention pie. I'm not sure what to make of that.
All content under copyright by the author. Dancing is permitted. The strange deltic glyphs in the sand under tidal flow are a pleasure to watch in their deepening. Offer not valid in Kansas. We put it down and then we lost it. It all happens in the corner of the eye. Commentary accepted at pen@goob.com, although the traps are agressive and the pointy bits simply drip with dark liquour. We have a dog, but we do not own it. Thank you.