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Bullet Points

Bullet points   

  •  Cover your face with lace. The world turns into pieces, because your head is tall and pointy. I guess it was hard to find the right sort of lace to look through. Some of it was too thick. A pity, because I couldn’t see your tall and pointy head anymore.
  • ·        You hum a tune called chess pie. Slightly bitter, too much butter. You like desserts that way, don’t you? Desserts that fall flat like soda over time. Mousse – filling your veins with mousse. Your world is chess pie and commas. Your world is change.
  • ·        Your name is Amalia, right? I overheard that while eating raisins I stole from the cafeteria. A raisin is a whole grape. I live in a snow globe on your desk, Amalia. You are always making bullet point notes, so I have started as well. I am a raisin and you are a whole grape. My world is water and glass. My world is constant, and I’m afraid of being overheard so I hum instead of talk. Can you hear me humming?
  • ·        I kind of like living in a snow globe. It couldn’t be more beautiful, but it could be more real. I’d really like to live outside the snow globe and walk along the mud flats with you, Amalia. No more peering through lace. No more parsed Latin, no more notes on the page. Everything flowing from tongue and mind and fingers. Because I’ve lost control, because our Christmas lights don’t go all the way across the wall. I’m trying to figure out where the divide is between your side and my side. I am like a bridge troll, except bridge trolls feel rain on their eyelashes. Everyone feels rain on their eyelashes, right? A unifying factor. Except for me. I don’t feel any rain. I don’t even feel snow because my snow isn’t real. Today you picked me up and held me as you walked across the mudflats. You forgot that with me, we weigh more. So you sank, Amalia. You sank and sank into the mousse mud until bubbles came up from your nose. Now I am sitting on top of the mud flats, Amalia, in the real world with you.







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