I kid you not - I wrote this in my dream last night.
She never put up with my reading.
'You wear your books like a badge.'
Wilderness Safety. Personal Finance. Ulysses. Proust.
'Nobody knows what the hell Joyce was talking about, anyway.'
She was right. On both accounts.
But I cry when I read Dostoevsky.
She's been gone a few weeks. Or a month. Or a year.
It doesn't really matter because I've forgotten her face.
And her name is a word.
And her something is nothing.
And not even straw blows through the empty barn.
But I cry when I read Dostoevsky.
