Sitting at the window, I repeat to myself: the project is to grapple with my inability to comprehend or speak about my world.
From my castle, my ivory tower, my highest, whitest horse, I can read all about it — 87 are dead in Aleppo, 26 in Connecticut— all safely within view, and unreachable. Next to me, a book about a genocide my very own family survived. Somewhere on the horizon, my very own death, at a considered and clinical distance. Far.
It’s far to the ground from this place. I want to call out, but what would I say?
Hey there! down there! Um. How are you, ground? How are you feeling today, Mr. Death? What do you think? —Should I jump?
Let my long hair down and let someone climb up to safety?
I’ve been having strange pains and inexplicable aches. Come to think of it,
AM I SAFE HERE, OR IS THIS WHOLE GODDAMN PLACE ABOUT TO CRUMBLE?
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