Jan 31, 2007 21:39
"Dying from gangreene caused by the failure to disinfect a scratch may be inherently less dramatic than facing rape or worse at the hands of a psycho solider of fortune and and tropical fish hobbyist." -francine prose, "scent of a woman's ink"
there's a quiet theory in the back of my mind.
i think it has to do with gangreene. maybe it's not the dramatic, but the inexplicit, the silences between the beats in the melody. it's something about the way coffee stirs into itself, and the cup just holds it in. but that's not quite finished yet, because there's something in the way the words start to spill in waves that the margins of the pages can't quite control. words themselves can't quite control.
if this were a journal, it'd be the point where i tell you i love you.
the problem is the space around that; it's the center. the problem lies somewhere between the spoon that curls the coffee before the offbeat. the problem is, this isn't a journal so much as a record. and records can't write their own songs of love, they can only play your tunes until the threading runs bare.
the real danger doesn't show up though, until you forget to feed the fish.