Jesse S. Mitchell
We are always speeding round the corner, leaving smoke trails behind, beautiful, like letters of the Armenian alphabet. Radio blaring, curled up silver stickers clinging to the glass. Bare light shafts, glare, between the bug guts and cracks. Expert machinery for moving mass and muscle.
9:27 in the morning, let’s make our daring escape.
Two birds in the bush.
Better than one in the hand.
Sir Lancelot breathed, “Guinevere, Guinevere, all this time here, all these treacheries here are called romance and will read like fairy tales someday, when we’re dead, when we’re dead, when we’re dead, not a ghost or spirit of us left.
But it’s when they say it’s not enough to just be awake, that I think we suffer the most. That sets in the chill of trepidation. What is enough? What is all of this? This is naked and it’s cold. This is nothing I understand. There is no way…
And this is why we need the arms around us.”
Who could’ve imagined we’d make it this far?
Always speeding round the corner, tires squealing, leaving smoke trails behind.
“Once you get into this great stream of history, you can't get out.”
-Richard M. Nixon
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