This is a story of what I know. It is already eight words too long,
but I will try, with many deprecations and precarious imbalances,
to make contact with sketches of what has been, what fizzes, and
what might yet see. A night baked coolly, under clouds, allows
passage for the weary, offering a giant hand on the back to loosen
the crick in my neck and just enough humid charm to let an infant
make his way into the house happy. Infant pleasure is intense. Infant
happiness sleeps through the movie. Early life knows how to forget
and the caretakers of early life learn how to forget. I raised my head
until the crick in my neck repeated itself, and it started to feel like a
narrative arch. The creek in my neck flows down to my right big
toe, beaming with trout and intentions, elevating the entire foot.
I hope to know more than a little bit of this story, by the end. I am
not convinced that this is a good or reasonable hope. I am willing
to give up this dream, particularly in favor of a flavor of expectation
that knows only reactions without a lick of chemistry. Smiles, no
explanation. Disappointment without reason. Grief for its own
sweet sake. And eight more words to describe without knowing.
Roman Ryan 