Last night I dreamt about a god who was angry because the noise of humanity prevented him from sleeping.
Dig the old lady who cut a tiny hole into her surgical mask so she can keep smoking her Benson & Hedges.
These are long days of suspension. For a moment I convince myself that everything is just fine. That I must have imagined the whole thing.
Ash Wednesday and people walk the streets with smudged crosses on their foreheads. A beautiful ritual, ancient and haunted.
The first gods must have been born while we slept.
Waking up this morning, the world doesn’t feel much different from the illogic of sleep.
I stared at the empty cabins along the shore, half-wondering if I was still dreaming about my father.
