It goes like this: You write for 2 minutes. Not a second less or more. No premeditation. No other rules.
Go.
I sweat. i sweated tonight and now i go to bed salty and sandy and leathered. Salty like the sea like a tiny teacup that i put her in and float her off into the ocean. until she reaches a stop light. a semaphore is good for nothing if not red and green. a christmas tree. a memory. a laying back and staring at the squinted white halos of a million christmas wishes strung on a tangled green vine. a silver ornament at ross's house. and sitting on the outside looking in on an adult party, sneaking bites of baked creamed corn and wishing for a life full of wine and tile and terracotta and a roasted turkey dressed like a movie. there was a life that haunted my adolsecence and now stands at the gateway of my looking-backness and tells me not to dre
