Sitting at Nicon waiting for a client, I realize it’s the wisdom of sudden truth that devastates you. I should use this in fiction, where I bare myself to knives. A patient etherized on a table was Eliot’s memorable phrase. Only this body, this patient, breathes and bleeds. Not quite dead, truth-visited, comatose.
The thing is, we always know, always did, but are gutted anyway. What’s left is how to know a thing is definitive but means nothing.
And now there’s the smell of cigarette smoke coming from somwhere. I am irritated. Yet, not 30 minutes ago, I’d slipped the maiguard #500 “for ciga”. It’s the truths about ourselves that devastate us the most.