that sudden warmth sinking low in your stomach and flooding your whole body the second they cross your mind

Only the unforgiveable is worth forgiving

although it’s not a coincidence they look extremely similar

The Gauntlet

Laramie loved night, with all its sparkles and mystery. She would make popcorn and wait for the moon to rise. Sometimes she would stare skyward trying to spot a falling star.

“Where do they go? And how do we know they’re falling?” she would wonder.

“You ask too many questions,” her parents would sigh.

Later she found night looked better from the comfort of her car. The contrast between the warmth inside and the danger outside was a gauntlet she ran every night after work. She soon recognized her race against calamity and realized one day it might catch her.

Federico García Lorca, from a letter featured in The Selected Letters of Federico García Lorca

I’m told the secrets of your heart,
they want me to know.
They warn me of your danger,
the danger of your desire for me and
I’m enticed; I won’t lie.

They tell me how you long
to hold me
squeeze me
touch me
bury yourself in me
over and over and over again,
ruin me for all else;
how you watch me, study me,
to learn my heart,
so you can tailor yourself
to me,
get in the lab and synthesise
the perfect solution,
the cocktail that will leave me
addicted, unwillingly.

They warn me to be wary
of the first sip,
the first kiss
and the passion behind your smile,
the one I saw in the dark
the day you bared your teeth.
It is the same as the pressure
I felt in your gaze
when you commanded my body
this time and that,
and I obeyed, in part,
I played along
aware of the danger.

They remind me
you have a tendency to
misbehave
when you drink
and a penchant for
caging innocent birds.

Funny,
that.
You’ve always called me your dove.

What if I told you that
you only dream of me
because the chants I
crooned before bed
brought me to your remembrance,
or when I opened that bottle of
elderflower sparkle
and watched your throat
constrict as you swallowed,
I had mixed in something special
just for you;
the more you drank,
the more of me entered you
spirit man and all
and when I stood with you,
songs going upwards
and you questioned me afterwards,
nervous,
pressed against the kitchenette counter,
the words in my eyes
weren’t so holy after all.
The result?
Entrapment.
Would you hate me?

there was a dead deer on the side of the road this dark morning, its head facing my car, barely visible through the fog, and the eyes even dead still caught my headlights and glowed

The idea of ​​writing my memoirs and retiring into the depths of the mountains, haunts me more vehemently with each passing day

It matters to me
I wish I mattered
I don’t matter
It doesn’t matter
That I don’t
I don’t
I don’t
I don’t
Matter
All it needs is a beat
It only has to make sense to me
And the bass
I only need my drummer to feel me
The keys to ride me
That’s all I need
All I’ve ever needed
A beat and a hum
Syncopated
A sad lyric here and there
Repeat
Refrain
Repeat
Refrain
Fade out black classical

+ misc character profiles

[…] such delicious sense of possession.

Shirley Jackson, Hangsaman

[…] and become instead the true friend of death, its accomplice, its more-than-brother.

David Diop, At Night All Blood is Black, tr. Anna Moschovakis

[…] bodies were an encumbrance, a necessary evil.

Hilary Mantel, An Experiment in Love

Boldy Go

Lexis treasured nights with Mr. Pennyworth. “He might be old,” she told her boyfriend, Torry, “but he knows his Trek.”

“Star Trek? Really?”

“I’m telling you, he should be an honorary Star Fleet officer.”

Every night shift, she brought snacks and stopped by to talk about the latest episode. Nicolas Pennyworth had seen them all. They chatted about trebles, Klingons, good, evil, and intergalactic peace. Pennyworth had witnessed “stuff you shouldn’t know” he once told her.

“That old black man could be a secret agent.” Torry teased.

“Or maybe,” Lexis said, “living this life made him dream beyond the stars.”

John Keats, La Belle Dame sans Merci

最近、年上の知人が癌で亡くなった。入院したと聞いてからひと月も経たないうちに、あっという間に逝ってしまった。私宛に手紙を書いて投函してくれたのだけど、ちょうど、私がその手紙を受け取った翌日に亡くなったと、後で聞いた。手紙には、病気を治してまた一緒にバイオリンを弾きたいことが書いてあって、私も彼女が戻って来るのを待っていた。あまりにも急な別れに、ポツンと取り残されてしまった気持ちになって、思考が停止してしまったよう。

肺がんだったようで、医療関係の知人が「肺がんは進行が早い」と言っていたことが証明された感じがするのも絶望的に思える。私よりも年上で優秀な研究者でもあったけど、気さくで明るくて、バイオリンや音楽の話をしている時は、とても可愛らしくて、まるで女子高生みたいで、私自身、彼女といる時は自分が学生に戻ったみたいな気分でいられた。私は男兄弟の中で育ったので、もし、お姉ちゃんがいたら、こんな感じだったのかもしれないと思うこともあった。

本当は全部嘘で、「ドッキリでした！」とバイオリンを持って訪ねて来てくれはしないか、なんて荒唐無稽なことまで考えてしまう。一言に「悲しい」というよりは、「なんで？」という苛立ちに似た感情の方が強い。いったい、人はどんな人生を生きれば幸せなのか？少なくとも、彼女を失った私は幸せではない。お金があれば、この不幸な気持ちを解消することができるか？権力を持っていれば、彼女を健康にすることができたのか？できるわけがない。

出会いがあれば別れがあることは分かっている。私もいつかはこの世界とお別れするのだろう。自分が望む形でそれを迎えることはできないかもしれない。おそらくできないだろう。私は非力で無力。子供の頃からずっと、力のない自分にガッカリしている。40代になった今も、低所得の自営業で、実家を出ることもできず、父親の病的な言動を嫌悪しながら暮らしている。死んでないだけ。社会的には存在していないも同然だ。

母が死んだとき、人が死なないで生きているのは奇跡だと思った。でも、死なないだけのままでいるのは苦しい。生きていることは素晴らしいということは痛いほど感じる。でも、苦しいまま生き続けることもないんじゃないかと思ってしまう。積極的に死のうとは思わないが、消極的には死を受容している。ミッドエイジクライシスとか言われるけど、そんなの、40年以上生きていれば普通の感覚なのではないかと思う。

（2026/03/13）