When I was seventeen I caught my jacket on fire while attempting to smoke a joint. It was a little thing, but it stuck with me. In that same year, I learned the word hypotyposis, a word as big as the animal it reminds me of. I thought long on what it meant, not just in fact, but to me. Seven years from now I'll crash my car into something sturdy. It will be an attempt at suicide, but I'll fail. I'll lose a significant amount of motor function. I'll learn to speak in Morse code with my eyes, but I'll write no novels of lasting import.

This is the part where I tell you about Jack London. This is the part where I apologise for the lie that made this part necessary. This is the part where I attempt to untangle my lies from my truths. This is the part where we both give up on such foolishness. These are my words playing quietly at being my fingers in my absence. This is my hand running the length of your spine. This is my breathing, arhythmic and portentious of cancer. If you listen very closely, you'll hear the words before I say them. You'll come before we kiss. You'll resent our divorce before--

--before--

Listen closely.

Timestamp: 03.03.07 at 03:58 PM. Filed under: Fiction.