"i'm in a bit of a slump" i tell him.
"they call it writers block but it feels more like a slump.
like the words have shoulders, and they're narcoleptic."
he says nothing, they never do.
"the hours at night have small hands that hold me open, and the things in my head i should be writing down are asleep in their curvy caves, murmuring while they dream."
"let's make this quick and painless, yes?" he says.
it is funny how many things we can preface with this, i think.
but i don't say it out loud. i never say anything out loud.
which reminds me. what about knives that get too dull?
the twist and the press down and the popping open, the shaking pills like marbles with air inside them, picking one out with your fingers and the look over and the swallow have all become like some piano song and i'm not sure what that means or if it's pretty or if it's not and i spend all my time sitting in my head turning pages of old books and reading everyones faces like i'm translating something from an old archaic language and i tell him all of this but he just looks at me and i look back at him but i can't see my face - only his, and this makes me wonder - most things do. most things do, i say, it's a problem. he nods and i look around for answers, the silence in the room like some child sitting in the corner blowing bubbles and watching them till they pop.