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…tripping, we talked about the perpetual metamorphosis of light, the immanent womb of the universe and the mega-earthworm of death; the cruel torment of the winter sun; the agonized souls of Joplin, Hendrix, Morrison, Cobain, Winehouse. And I admitted that once again events happening in the world had begun to flicker by me, how I felt as though I was sitting alone in a movie theatre in which the reel has ended but continues to turn and flap with deafening rapidity because the projectionist has either fallen asleep up there or left the booth unattended. The clock cannot rewind, you said, never recovers, and then you told me to quit reading Nietzsche. Immediately afterward, you dropped your cigarette and started coughing, wolfing down time, looking at me as if I should help. The light sputtered, jagged in its quiescent sloth. We sat on the front porch, not at any movie—instead, in front of a lower-class residential tableau. Your pupils were so wide, laying claim to the gray ceiling, your clumsy stare roaming over the paint chips as your head slanted back. Since I have come to know the body better, I replied, the spirit to me is only quasi-spirit. And I Swear I remember you murmuring: soothsayer, wanderer, you are all too human...
Publishing date: October 14, 2022
Paperback: 174 pages
Dimensions: 6 x 0.36 x 9 inches
Greg Girvan graduated from Slippery Rock University with a bachelor’s in English. Prior to that, he attended Arizona State University where he studied fiction writing under Ron Carlson (author of numerous collections of short stories, including News of the World and A Kind of Flying) and Mark Harris (author of numerous novels, including Bang the Drum Slowly and Something about a Soldier).