-Notes From Any Committee-

But our memories are like our hands. Jammed in pockets, fidgety. Empty more often than …where did I put my pen? Phalanges protrude only so far from our palms. We can’t reach so, we ball our crocuses until our wrists turn blotchy. We unclench snow. It is like we had to scratch a thaw and instead we fondled distractedly all along. There, on the table is the frenetic Sun: Like a one-dimensional trope in a poem that mentions seasons. It has said only half a sent… and the chairs squeak, they all lean back and didder. Some folded, some grab handkerchiefs, adjust glasses, pick noses. The meeting is over. Mittens are warmer, but they say gloves give you more motion. The wind applauds and slaps. We have made progress: I found my pen. 0-1 Share...

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