I am sitting in a semi-lit hotel room thinking and the thoughts are like words being spoken aloud. But perhaps that’s my dramatic way of listening to the air conditioning. I had dinner with a friend tonight at my favorite Afghani find from last year. Kiernan (with such a cool name) got me thinking. I refuse to be the plaything of a Wickham, even if it’s the fabrication of my own mind. And so, the social experiment kicks up again. But this time is not bound for Nigeria. That is a slow boat to hell. And so instead, I am listening and not responding. Giggling and laughing in a city that affords me the luxury to be flippant with something so precious. Wondering where the night got off to and what is delaying him. Exulting in anonymity even if my telltale markers are all over the body of evidence at hand. And yet somehow Lucille Clifton beckons me back to the Eden discovered in her coiled, compressed words.
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