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June 3, 2013

She breaks thinking of the nostalgia that some people deal with. She shouldn’t be so upset but she can’t help it. She can’t forget any of it. The thought of another girl’s bright eyes breaks her in half. Cracks her mind right in half. Sometimes you have to let go before you can remember how to hold on tight.

Moments of clarity don’t often come with a pillow over your head but isn’t that the way of it with her.

Clarity comes like crickets or cicadas falling from the ceiling.

“What’s your preoccupation with ceilings?”

They ask.

“The fear that everything must be held in, capped, so to speak, so that we all don’t get carried away.”

She holds on to the thought, gripping tight that we have to limit ourselves to some degree. She thinks about all the things she’s holding so tightly but really she holds nothing but a pen and a few disconnected thoughts. Or thoughts held together by dental floss.

Later, after a dinner of deep martinis and marcona almonds she found herself pulsing to the beat of a song whose name was lost. She felt herself propelled into her future, but for the first time ever, she had no idea what she was looking at. A big city encased in a deep fog, or a vast forest and an empty lawn chair. She wasn’t alone, but who is this person? Whose hand am I holding?

Why can’t we stop all the girls from jumping off the bridges?

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