Monday 12 October 1998

I’m sitting on the front porch to continue this story, evening coffee time—a soft rain falling. It’s nice not to be in it, and it slows down the world a little. What happened to me after I was smashed like a tick and scratched like a flea, and forgotten like a _____. Well, nothing. Nothing Nothing Nothing. That's the worst thing that can happen. And then… nothing happened. If I was a song, I’d be silent. If I was a book, I’d be blank pages. If I was a TV show, I’d be cancelled. If I was a movie, I’d be the trailer. If I was a marriage, I’d be divorced. If I was a painting, I’d be gesso. If I was a poem, I’d be blank verse. If I was a…