She is simply there, wearing a large black hat with an awning. I knew her once, a long time ago. Or rather, I knew a younger version of her. She’s in her early 60’s now, ravaged and depleted by hard decades of raising her kids. Her name is Estelle.
We used to work together at Bobber’s Fish Emporium. I can still smell the clams.
“Estelle?” I ask her, already formulating what I’m going to say.
She smiles and shakes her head. “No, sorry. My name is Kimberly,” she informs me.
“Oh, I’m sorry. You looked like someone...”
“Don’t we all?”
An ostrich walked past us with its muddy dinosaur feet.
And there you have it.
I chopped up the Sermon on the Mount with a razorblade and snorted all the words through a hollowed-out ballpoint pen. Jesus’s words dripped numb in the back of my throat all day. Tomorrow I’m gonna freebase some Kierkegaard because snorting Kierkegaard is a waste. In the meantime, stay hep! because...
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