Letter: We Had to Hide it From Everyone
“Just you, on weekdays, at noon, for an hour”
02/20/2007
Dear Mr. _____,
James is in the living room killing killing a giant bird with some type of laser beam, and I am sitting at the kitchen table silently writing down these-here words on this-here page.
Now I am scratching my head, looking at a half-rotten banana. Kitchen sink, I think. Someone forgot to put water in the pot. It popped and smoked and glowed red. Thank goodness we caught it before the combustion, for I fear we would have burned, and as far as I can tell, I do not like fire on my flesh.
Dear Sir,
My heart is heavy, but let's not get heavy, which causes the raining of wrappers and me to avert my eyes. Let's just keep it nice and quiet and infrequent.
When buses are the places we touch legs and want to stay, we know we've got it bad. Remember when we ran to sneak a look at the sky through the windowed ceiling, colliding clumsily, and we laughed at the stars just like children? I do. I think of it often. Do you think of me when we are separated only by the cruelty of concrete? I miss you on days like today. I miss you everyday, in fact, because you are not – this is not – really real. How horrible that this is all simply a nice dream that will soon come to an end. And what then? Does one disappear, or feign different feelings? I suppose we shall see, eh?
Hey! I thought I wasn't going to get “heavy.” Well, gee. That is to say: Oops.
We got a new issue of the Watchtower, and you'll be happy to know that “the earth [is] just right for us.” That information, without getting into further detail, sort of eases the mind, don't you think? I'm afraid to open the thing up and find out what they're really getting at.
EVERYTHING IS BEAUTIFUL. And sweet in that bitter way. I think of you. I think of you. I think of you. I think of me. I just want to give you things. I want to give you everything. I don't need anything in return. Just you, on weekdays, at noon, for an hour. Just a floating, fleeting escape from what is real. These days, though they won't last, will be the ones we remember.
-R
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