Metamorphasis

It all falls stupidly into place – just when I think I’ll never be able to do it, some odd sense of calm falls over me, and the mood changes. Colors brighten and the wind dies down. And then I pick up the phone or set down the drink in my glass and everything is just right.

And then he walks into the place with a gun and I have to look at you with such disdain. Not at HIM, but at you. Why do you accept that? What part of you says, “This is okay”? I simply do not understand it. And I have tried – but it all ends up turning into excuses and pardons and forgivings – and you cannot do that.