Winter always takes me by surprise someone says. Out the window little houses come and go. Everything is crisper when it's cold, as if the eye can see the rigidity of molecules. It's summer that takes me by surprise, I realize. Winter comes after fall, sure as anything. The sky is gray in Syracuse, all the time. That's how I think of it, even though it's not true.
Summer seems entirely improbable. I remember it only in a vague, dream-like way. My memories of encounters in winter are very strong.
I'd list some here, but I've come to hate relating any memories I have that are not already stories. Precious little gems, my brother would say. We all hold them so very fucking dear, whatever they happen to be. But one must have something to call one's own.
Where are you?
How did you get there?
I really don't know. It seems like...sometimes I forget where I am, like I'm home again, if you know what I mean.
Is this that boring stuff about Syracuse again?
Well, I guess so. It is a college town, here. There's a similar mentality, though less of a depression.
But that's not really what you meant.
I don't know what I meant. I'm in a kind of transition. Like something is coming to a conclusion.
You always feel like that.
Maybe I only talk to you when I feel like that.
Don't get weird, now.
I get twisted up inside. I get twisted up into the lightscape, and I can't let go. I can't say anything right, not just right. I'm always a little askew.
Little Askew would be a good name for a comic book character.
I have deleted everything too personal from this post.