Jesse reacts to tragedies like an adolescent though he is nearly forty. He also reacts to days off work and disappointments and the 'flu in much the same way. My own reactions are wrapped in soft cotton batting so nothing feels sharp or tastes of anything but wool. The skies are lower than ever and I stuff grey clouds in my ears so I do not accidentally overhear you.
You look smaller than I thought you were. Impossible that I have grown. Your mouth moves terribly fast, twisted in a half-smile that says you know a secret; I cannot hear you. You are inevitably quoting Fight Club or Sylvia Plath. Familiar with both I will miss nothing if I do not stop to listen. Fight Club is a book, you know, I think of saying (to the sky)...
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