trust in me
He engaged me in conversation. His words were not as engaging as mine, not as real, and I don’t say that through some sense of immodesty. There was more truth to what I said. He had lived the words he spoke, as I had lived mine. Listening to him was like reading a book. It takes a lot for a book to attract and maintain my attention. His book was probably fine, but not for me.
I could say there was something about him and I just couldn’t put my finger on it, that some word was dangling from the tip of my tongue, but that would be disingenuous because I knew as soon as I saw him – up close – that he reminded me of the snake. They could have been related. That was unlikely. but not an impossibility. They were connected.
I could go on, but I’m not going to. I felt like writing a couple of paragraphs, practise for my return to my next book.
Happy Wednesday … all 11 minutes of it … it’s 11 minutes past midnight on the 11th of the 11th.