What’s the saying again? ‘If you boil a frog in water…’?
I ate cake for the new year. I was drinking I was an island. Everybody somehow knew everyone else, they were all strung in lights and ice.
This part of town was somewhere I’d been before. I liked it, next to the women’s shelter. Those parts which were not burned. The paint yet to be retouched, left half-finished for lack of stamina. There was a memorial nearby, condemned to a background history a heavy red curtain where one could hear movement but not see it.
A very dry winter, so short yet retaining a density which challenges elasticity;
a long, long piece of gum, strained and stretched very far.
I ate cake; yellow cake. It had that frosting on it, the cheap kind. So the caps were all off. A toast to the New Year: ashes to ashes.