When he thought he'd lost eyes for the world like he'd wanted to, and he'd finally sunk fully into the shit and ghost of the alleyway – sitting there at the window, looking down to where men ate mice, and men slid needles, and women tore muscle, and women pieced scraps, and thinking the whole glob of it divine, and thinking that whatever the world could be, or should be, it already was, right here, right now, in the alleyway, perfect and pure and right – only then did he believe he’d actually accomplished his madness, only then did he believe he could die detached, die free, but his madness was imagination, and when he died he wanted change and despised memory and feared death, which was fine.
Jesse Eagle
liberateworld@yahoo.com
The House of Breath
William Goyen