Last summer was a difficult season, the worst I’ve had in years. I bloodied an eye from weeping, capillaries branching like red vines around the hazel nest where my pupil gleams like a black egg.
“After his breakout success with The Illiad, the blind poet shows no signs of second-epic syndrome. Sprint to your closest scribe and snag a copy before the papyrus runs out!"
I almost ran this collage last week but thought it might’ve been early to spring nudity on you. Since this is the third installment of Paper Trumpets (our third date!), I decided that now is the time. I hope you still respect me in the morning.
The cool story would be how we went home that night, dropped everything, booked our trip, and were soon having a threesome...under the ocean spray that endlessly cascades over San Sebastian’s horseshoe beachfront. But that isn’t what happened.
Magic isn’t about making the impossible happen. Surely that’s a big part of it, but more importantly, magic reminds us how it feels to be bewildered by something.
I clutched the uneven wooden arms of my beach chair and felt hopelessly in love with everyone, this assemblage of trash-talking deadbeats who insist they are too old to still work at a snack bar but come back year after year, even though they’ve been saying to hell with the place ever since they started.