When an attack occurs, drawers are pulled out and rugs jerked from under our feet. Electrical outlets become dangerous. We have to be ready for it.
The world is ending. But we still have sexual attraction, poetry reviews, the system.
Getting the financials ready for the nuns.
Human Resources burns and disfigures my feet to keep me from talking.
When we return, we find that the insects are missing, and so are the cake pieces. Sores appear on B’s skin.
An elderly woman clasps her hands around the back of my neck and hangs off me, desperate to get my attention.
She was performing on the steps when she realized the city was deserted.
Unpacking a series of unusual lamps. Tiny lights along sleek white strings. Thick braids of incandescent wire, fibrous like muscles. Although some are too large, I must swallow as many as I can. There is not a lot of time.
It is all pretend. All we do is pretend. More and more, the older we get.
Once in a while I wake to a large, perfectly symmetrical spider dangling from a web directly in front of my face. The image is detailed and digital-clear. When I start in fright and revulsion, I come more fully into consciousness and realize nothing is there.