"You're going to die early," someone told me last night. So I shut up, stopped talking, and sacrificed another. And today, yet another, I'm sure.
The pearl-studded stone. Writing is the ugliest art form. It takes too long to see the big picture. There's never enough color. And those things are beside the point. Because we have poor eye sight. Astigmatism, keratoconus, intuition. And we're busy fumbling around in the dark. Even me. All I see now are the worthless, sentimental things I picked up along the wayside, where I slept when the weather was warm. The dumb bugs, the color yellow, eyes in the woods that were briefly eyes. We went down there to stare, and they were only tiny white flowers. Little blind swans. No one saw us. We never saw each other. No one saw at all. And at the count of three, you will open your eyes . . .