Friday, December 30, 2011
Thousand: Six Hundred Eleven
hurt somebody, you know. You really have to know what you’re doing. People get injured, and they don’t have anyone to take care of them. You don’t know!” The girl gets up, brushes more dust or the idea of dust from her pants, and leaves the room. In the next room, there is another white box, another naked figure, another pause to kneel and extract an ant. “I’m tired. I’m so tired. I wish death would take me so I didn’t have to be tired anymore.” In the fourth room the set up is the same, the plaintive, irritating monologue
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2 comments:
I know that sense of tiredness, but to act on it is to make other's tired.
I also know your writing is fiction, or so it seems, but sometimes I prefer to respond as though I have entered a real conversation midway. Happy new year, Glenn.
Just as readers do on your own blog, Elisabeth, and so much more easily as, even though crafted, your writing presents as autobiographical.
Happy New Year to you!
And to the readers who read but don't comment, my best wishes.
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