The story lives inside.
But wrestling writing into the world reminds me of… Every gory one-night stand I’ve ever had. The limp-dicked embarrassment of someone you’ve rubbed your genitals up against who pretends not to know you. The Friday night your mother threw her meal across the dining room table, how it hit the wall with a dull thud, hung mid-air for a millisecond and then rushed to meet the floor. Getting caught mid-curiosity whilst exploring your labia as a child. The sour taste of your aunt’s breath, the one who likes to kiss for too long.
Vulgar. Fumbling. Mind numbing. Waiting. Offensive grind. Sweat. Scratch. Slave. Strain. Fleeting sweet. Exposure. Embarrassment. Rinse. Repeat.
Perfection lives inside the story. And I live like longing forever licking at the edges of its boundaries.
[An ode to David Foster Wallace for JhP.]