Burning

Burning ★★★★★

The phone rings in the dead of the night. Gives way to dead silence, slow and deep. Cats themselves may or may not exist, though the food disappears and the litter boxes are full. Writers are never seen writing. Girls fall into wells that no one remembers. Greenhouses burn down without a trace. People vanish into thin air. Mothers come and go.

What’s constant- what stays- is the hunger. Great hungers and little hungers. Hungers of the flesh. Hungers of the soul.

Hungers that dig so deep into your bones, you could take a tangerine in your palm, unpeel it, place it on your tongue, spit out the seeds. Forget it doesn’t really exist.

The forgetting- that’s the key.

Burning could have easily been a mystery. It’s more of a poem.

Things reappear, as if in rhyme, begging to be noticed. Closets. Fire. Class. Performances. People do things knowing that they are watched, craving it. They take stones out of the hearts of strange girls or dance naked into the night sky.

Other things don’t seem to be anything at all, only metaphors for something else. They slink across the screen so vague and obscure, it’s obvious they don’t actually exist, even though they seem to.

And to think of all those greenhouses, just waiting to be burnt...

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