I. Sackets Harbor, dead of midnight, August: Three kids at that junction of not believing they are, in fact, kids, lay backs flat on the asphalt of dead quiet Route Three in stunning star-silence. II. It could only have been half an hour before our skin was eaten by bugs or we wanted a beer from inside, though in my mind when I go there (when I’m paying bills, writing a press release, attending dinners I don’t want to eat) I believe I am returning to an eternity; as if eternity is broken up into different parts, states, counties, boroughs, and not the lone, true, indivisible nation that it is; as if the body on the floor of the subway station belongs to a different forever.
You're so welcome!



Comment early, comment often, keep it civil: