Weblog entry:
- Alone, but one.
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There are points in which the anger sits at the end of a sentence, filling in the space that you don’t want to, like a fuming ellipsis. A cæsura that’s squalid and fat, stuffing itself with the words neither of you speaks. It seems to laugh—as you should—, and the things you should be saying fleck off its mouth like so many crumbs: unwanted, uncounted. Between the two of you, the silence deadens the air between until Her voice sounds tinny and cold. Once the call ends—angrily, abruptly—, you become acutely aware of how silent your apartment is. Empty. Indifferent.
She calls back, and suddenly midnight never seemed so full of light.
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