Beliefs are the harbingers of grief. To hold tight to an idea is to grip life too hard, to expect things and inevitably become enraged when the dream hits the day. The rubber and the road can connect, but ideas do not have physics.
All this is why I find it hard to quack like a duck. Ducks drive trucks badly. And I do not walk. This is a story about mutuality. About the way flocks of ducks are misnamed, shamed by the awkward sounds that double ewes make when they are only separated by a k.
There are forty seven reasons why the bold war ended. Mostly, italics came into serif. People can only be together if they forget their notions and hold hands into the sunset over the visceral oceans. Let the verbs lie in, they are tired. Be nouns without adjectives. Let your prepositions flow without feeling, a river of nearness, togetherness, above and besideness.
I would have written an essay were I an essayist. I would have written a memo were I powerish. I would have put this in verse if I had not started worse than awake: in a fugue of rogue displeasure. We can hang a little more barbed wire on the Christmas tree, developing the film from the Brownie to show us what we wish we could have gotten on that American birthday so many years ago.
Getting got us here, this dim nowhere, this place where mind is empty and these hands are full of emptiness. We must remember We and forget all the other lower case words in this picture book. And then forget that one too. We will disappear and this is the thing that can bring our rings together, and drop them into the fire with our now-useless, detached fingers.
Roman Ryan 