Unless.
I cannot come up with something to hold back my love of these memories. But I have to figure out a way to hold them off, for just a moment, just long enough to get my bearings.
And I’m not very good-looking, inside or out. I have bald spots. My face is disproportional and I notice this works with some people–a lot of people, or movie stars.
So what does this have to do with memories killing me? I think I used to see myself as beautiful long ago. As a kid. But I wouldn’t have called myself that exactly. I would have called myself amazing or superhero-ish. I was a bad-ass.
And beautiful. Instead, as a kid, or as I was purported to be one, I felt like I could accept every nook and cranny of existence. There were no dark corners. I didn’t have to look in a mirror for any validation.
Where do you look now, when you pass a mirror, and need to floss, or wash your face? I never remember washing my face as a kid. That’s where the memories lurk, in that fucking mirror.

The candles flickered. I heard my name called, from the other side of those tiny flames. His eyes were lit. I answered by blowing out the candles.
A snake of smoke rose from the candle wicks and I knew I was in love.

Tulips dazzle next to daffodils. There’s a party in flower pots.
I can also smell pot in the air. There is a party everywhere.

The staunch politicians were laid out on various ironing boards.
The staunch politicians then became starched politicians.

When it happens I wonder if I’m asleep–this vision of mist and shine makes me think of a strange shampoo used for outdoor festivals.
When I think of the brilliance of fog I think of someone trying to capture a memory, in a net, to examine, only to see that it is no longer fluttering, no longer sparkling.

My heart goes out to Edith, after she lost her good friend Beverly LasSalle to hate crime.
I watched Edith suffer and it was like watching a beloved family member suffer. I wanted to say something nice to her. But she isn’t real. And yet, what she is feeling, is.

She adorned the palace with jewels. She hid them. So one might often sit on one if taking tea in one of her many parlors.
You’d feel a short pain or pinch on your buttocks. You’d stand up turn and see a diamond or ruby winking back up at you.
Why, she say in that mirthful way, after a quick sip of tea. I’ve been looking for that piece for ages!

Slices of ham never impressed me. They were never meant to. My family just like them sliced thin. I watched as father sliced a ham and wondered, what happens after that? Well, eating the slices, of course. But what after that? Eating what was on the rest of the plate, I guess. But then what?
Reading a book. Watching a television show.
But then what?
Bed time
Then what?
Waking up.
Then what?
I never took it much further than a few Then Whats. Because life seems long only when Then What? has nothing afterward.

Mr. Dabbers squinted as he emerged from his home. Sunlight had not meant to assault his eyes quite so harshly as all that. But his cold had kept the shades drawn and his body under the covers. Now that he felt better, he realized he had to make amends with nature.

I sat one time and just stared forward–the living room was before me. Chairs, a table, a lamp, a copy of Vogue.
But I couldn’t see them. I’m not sure what I was looking at. But whatever it was, it felt like mine.