The little one has a rough night. I make a weak slurry of medicine and hold him, curl his hand around mine, stroke his faintly chlorine-y hair, wonder if Carver was a victim of genital mutilation or just the usual cascade of indelible tragedies? How can we ever staunch the wounds?
Sir, what must I do to be saved? Sell all you have, he says, knowing my weakness, I cannot sell this feeling:
Love left behind
I had the most peculiar experience with this binary interface I have come to rely on I wrote soot and it told me I was wrong, no such word emerged from its memory. Perhaps I meant “soothe?”
I did not, and I followed soot down the wormhole of synonyms…for burnt bits of things, smoke, fire, and ash…and even then I had to go to the long answer, queued behind the others
Google was once just a really big number. Apple was a fruit. But what if they take us? Take our words and all the memory of them?
What will we have then?