Even Léaud got old.
Powerlessness, next to godliness.
2) first draft
A space has been created in your brain for advertising, magical thinking, and organized religion.
The cat who joins you at the back window to watch squirrels on the lawn; the dog who briefly rests his head on your lap on the bench in front of the food co-op; the toddler one table over, offering her bottle to you—all touchingly unaware of what a shit you are.
In her twenties she was pretty, by her thirties beautiful. And now, finally, she was as ugly as she’d always felt.
Watching your neighbor doing Sunday yard work you can almost see the self-righteous thought bubbles about the value of hard work floating above his head, played in his dad’s voice.
What would you do if you could go back in time?
Probably die of embarrassment.
I was feeling pretty shit. Like I had cancer and didn’t know it, or was about to lose my mind. Ever feel that way? Like you have cancer, and don’t know it, or are about to lose your mind? And I couldn’t get that song out of my head.
There’s the chair she sat in, facing the door, hoping for a visit.