I’ve been thinking that montage is a mental technique
for accepting unity as a convulsive illusion. I feel sick.
I hate it when my stories have holes, though I suspect
there’s where the truth leaks out. So go back to bed.
Maybe it’s laziness, maybe the delivery system is flawed.
If life is a movie, then I’ve spent years sneaking out
for smoke breaks between takes. I do violence to myself.
I imagine the ones I love dead in their favourite chairs,
dead in distant car crashes. Who are those girls who wear
lipstick to watch TV? The women I know go shut-in,
sleep in their clothes for days in a row. A self-help author
revealed to me with great confidence that life is swinging
from branch to branch in a fog. And I thought of course
he’s right, of course, he’s wrong. Let’s say we are always
at Point A. From space, the ocean is only a mirror.