cotton dreams

[ghostvines]

sometimes, somehow, on that deceptive border between reality and oblivion, life was unbearably beautiful. on those early saturday afternoons when jenny and i would clamber into my car, roll down the windows, and sail down hwy 61--sun illuminating our faces in an unforgivable pale yellow glow, wind wafting past our blinking eyelids--life became, for the first time, something that i could understand missing, even from the black oblivion of death.

after years spent scoffing at the fear of cessation of life, the complete loss of the ability to build memories and new experiences, i tasted something alluringly sweet.