You have to be always drunk. That’s all there is to it—it’s the
only way. So as not to feel the horrible burden of time that breaks
your back and bends you to the earth, you have to be continually
But on what? Wine, poetry or virtue, as you wish. But be drunk.
I wonder how you can look at anything and not feel your knees shake from the memory of it. I have been in your bed and cradled between your palms and your knees, in your shower and in the patch of sunlight that touches your room just before noon. Your sheets and your hair and your hips. Your lazy Saturday morning smile isn’t yours anymore. It’s mine. Look, there, you can see me. There’s my ghost. She’s waving at you. She’s saying ‘boy, you’ll need to burn this entire place down if you want to forget what happened here.’ She’s saying ‘man, all the ways we loved is splattered across these walls like murder.