You know how it is, you of all people, you of the angelic mind. You’ve seen me sit in front of the typewriter trying to gouge out the words, trying to perform a mental lobotomy and anesthetize my fears. Your feet are never dirty and you sit across from me with your legs crossed, smiling serenely while I try to dig up ideas but they never come, do they, and your face is so full of pity I might swipe at it with my claws and tear it all out.
You with the angelic thoughts and a smile that never bends upwards to the twisted things I laugh at, only at the straight, uncomplicated and pellucid. Your feet are white and soft like those of a baby, like you’d never walked barefoot to work or mined for ideas or did anything at all, except sat on that couch smiling. You are the mental equivalent of a chihuahua, a dwarfed intellect, only you don’t yap, you just sit there and smile like you know something. You know something.
The words stop again. You make inroads to my psyche and derail me, unbidden by you and me, just by virtue of us two existing in the same space, a useless space, a regrettable space, to which we were never invited.