There are two types of miss: the jagged kind that goes away and the prolonged type that never really does. It’s like knee-scrape pain and chronic pain. A note versus a chorus. The latter’s like a river with no mouth or end, it’s just flowing, flowing.

And at the end of the hall are little blue monsters, like the children they scare and the hearts they rattle. They keep you up with their wailing stampeding old-notes-reading attention-seeking dejected weeping something-something with 42 mentions. And I’m up at four and I’m tending to it, just about ready to pump it full with sleep

(go sleep in your felt blue box you terrible relentless tiny blue monster)


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