Wednesday, November 11


AN E-MAIL ARRIVED. I read it, then swung at the air and said—‘Have that, you fuckin’ cunt!’ I laughed. I carried on laughing. My colleague took his headphones out and said—‘That was an aggressive celebration.’
‘I made the finals of a short story competition… I thought I was out, but they just contacted me… Fuckin’ get in.’
‘You write?’
‘I do. I try to.’
I felt something. The dictionary told me that it was an emotion, so I became attached and named it Verona. Hello, stranger. Hello, Verona.
On the way home I bought a couple of beers and a bottle of wine so that I could get drunk. Everything came back to me, the perfect feelings of being; all of them sprung out of something that, in the scheme of things, was so small; nonetheless, I was feeling something. Something, something something. Feelings are back. Verona.

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