I met the spirit of Ypsilanti, Michigan, USA, the other night.
It jumped from a young girl (call her twenty-three) to a late twenties barman, smoking a cigarette before going back to a surprisingly packed gourmet sausage bar.
It asked me how I was doing and, distressingly for me, the spirit of Ypsilanti has, among them, powers of truth.
I lied anyway, on opening my mouth, "I'm good, thank-you, I blurted." And ran to my car, keys jingling in a shaky hand.
I am thirty years old and a beard most men would envy. I am six feet and four inches (think: 2.5 meters) tall.
The spirit of Ypsilanti, Michigan, USA is a scary thing to meet.
This morning, I realized I'd been summoning a spirit shard of sadness and entropy. I realized this as I was driving to work, and also while driving to work, I devised a cage and a way to capture the shard.
. . .
I just finished the last part of the lock, I think (I hope) and look at me! I'm writing and publishing a blog post about lies and other fictions.
There's truth to be had, here, my love, and I hope you see it.
* * *
Last night, as we were getting dressed, steam rising off our naked bodies, pulling on our socks over wet toes to get our feet off the changing room tile that much faster; in that moment of black socks and total acceptance Nick asked Bea if she'd like a ride home. My mouth hung open, my words stolen.
Proof time isn't linear, right there.
It's my own fault, I suppose. I dragged a friend two and a half days into the past and pushed and shoved him into his ex wife's house, where we got wasted on her top shelf rum and he tried on her clothes and kicked her diningroom chairs around and cried his eyes out.
"Thanks man, that was actually really good for me." He said.