Friday, June 26, 2009

New Novel

You feel nothing but you do it anyway. All in your head. Head work. We use this term as an acusation. Murakami, Auster in his weakest moments, Beethoven. We still have a symphony to perform and perhaps my heat is enough to warm it. You feel nothing but you play the notes, not with the skill of the savante but with enough knowledge to get by.

How is it that we are so completely unaligned. I dance, you follow awkwardly. I am all flesh and heart. You do the head work.

A + B = an equation that you have practiced. And so it goes, this thing between us figured, decimal place by decimal place until we come to our separate conclusions.

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