Cold chicken, sandwiches, and an easing of tension.
It's an episode of self-destruction. Her senses splinter, her mind pursues the dozen sins and slights she thinks are aimed at her. With a single-mindedness, she runs the evening to the ground. Afterwards, her eyes are suspiciously bright, but she can't see that she shares any part of the fault for how badly the evening went.
The color of the day is burnt umber. That's what I feel in me: low-key anger that crisps and singes and stirs up the ashes. But I'm at peace from time to time as well. The day is one of shocking beauty.
Most of the notes are breathy and weak. But the last one comes alive and is held to the limit of human breath.
Weaving fragile lies for the children, so that they'll continue to not put a name to what they might suspect.
He assumes a humble, pious pose and speaks as one who has little experience of the world. Maybe I'm in too cynical a mood to appreciate what he's saying.
Food leaking from aluminum trays. Liquid on the carpet. Little of what matters is salvageable.