When morning comes, whenever I can, I lie for a great while in dread.I don’t know how much more of it I can take, yet I confess I lure dread
with baits of what-if: if I make a decision that kills a man; if I become allergicto skin; if I lose the use, but not the memory, of my tongue. To endure dread,
create bait, then bait, then abate. But what if there is no there there?What if you, my extraterrestrial darling, don’t exist? I need you to cure dread.
It’s not fair, I know, but the truth is, like many of us, I live partially in my fantasyof it: how, after decades, I find a trace of you in a bend of light; how your dread
never rises; how,…
