November 14, 2019 | Fiction
And any of the people that had been counted correctly, including me, could move or die, making the incorrect count accurate once again, if only for a moment.
I just remember the room dense with familiar sound, the melancholy howl of the perfectly in-tune saxophones, the electric brilliance of trumpets, a drummer with eight arms; my mother looking over at me, expectantly, as if to say, “This is what you wanted, right? This is making you happy?”
...a person is like an ocean, or a country, or a forest...
Do you remember this one?
Exposing myself to the dumbest ideas and the most hateful weirdos online triggers a chemical reaction that gives me pleasure, or something like it. A hoarder of bad ideas, stacking them all up into wobbly piles that might someday topple and crush me.