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Friday |
| there are no words out there in the montana flatlands so we peck some out on the smith-corona "super silent" portable manual i brought. the slapping of keys goes with the turning of wheels-- how many more times will that combination be heard in the 21st century? poem after poem, sarah and i take turns until there are 40 in all. and when we're bored of that we read, trading books when they're complete. i start with all men are mortal while sarah burns through the bell jar. the first is about a man who cannot die and thus whose every action feels empty. the other is about a young woman who goes crazy and tries to end it all. suicide and immortality, the train rolls on. |