From
sleep he carries with him into the incipient morning’s early hour an intense
abstraction of grief, residual from a dream he cannot now remember, for how to
recall something sourceless, something neither real nor ever actually
experienced, upon which he could bring to bear no force of memory.
Not wanting to wake her with the speaking of his prayer, and understanding too his Jesus will hear it spoken or not, he mouths the words, his eyes projecting everywhere the bright negative of that crack where the curtains do not close to keep the morning out.
Not wanting to wake her with the speaking of his prayer, and understanding too his Jesus will hear it spoken or not, he mouths the words, his eyes projecting everywhere the bright negative of that crack where the curtains do not close to keep the morning out.
That
his mother might have died is the only all to which he might attribute this and
he is wrong, for the moment.
Skunk (prising the cap from off a bottle
of Moosehead): You know what they call a beer and whiskey chaser?
ache1: Not. One. Idea. Proceed.
Skunk: Incinerators.
Pause.
Skunk: No,no no no, no… i-, hang on. Boilermakers.
Pause.
Skunk (again): Boilermakers, and
don’t ask me why.
and
this the hallucinogenic quality of their sleeping, at night-time or otherwise,
where they speak to each other a nonsense, endearments the very meaningless of
which affords them meaning, where also they are subject to a hunger of lust
demented in its intensity, or damn near.
He
touches her hair, understanding this all something so precious, but how to keep
it so, how to keep it at all, whispering alongwith the response he imagines
from out his Uncle Jesus,
Jesus: You can have her for just a little
while, but when I see that she needs some rest, I will call her home to be with
Me.
