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Literally What Was Joan Didion Thinking

You want me on my couch? This couch? It hasn’t been steamed properly, its folds ashen from biscuit crumbs and thread locks.”

“I find warmth in an embrace. I find it engulfing, a tangle of arms in arms of another or of the self. I find this sweater to be quite nice, honestly.”

“…but these aren’t my glasses. I’ve amassed a collection of them, gathered over the years for ordinary moments of sun. Of brightness.”

“I find myself staring at a blank.”

“The weight of the world hangs by my neck. The past, the present, and the future wear on me. I find the weight a distraction but it is my weight and I must be the one to wait with it. A question: is the weight worth it? Can I cut the golden amulet off, releasing it into the creamy shag floor, an ocean of my making?”

“I am just a bone. I am swallowed not only by the world but by myself and this sweater.”

“A common tiger lilly, a small fire flower. ‘Off and away into maturation,’ I imagine her saying. Her passion enlivens me. She is a symbol. I had wished to keep her on the table.”

“The blanket’s yarned detritus has corralled itself into the leg pit of the fluffed seat. I wonder if these miniature tumbleweeds can be shaved. I did not want them to be seen.”

“I promised myself a smile.”

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