House star fiddling soap emperor cascades down mountain flora searching for a pink heart with someone in it. There’s a black box with insert points, cookies on a chipped plate sitting on a table by a window with paisley curtains. The breeze coming through flops them around like wild flags. “They’ll get cold,” I say. “They’re already cold,” the baker says.

There must be some kind of an electric arrow stuck in my brain. I’m not thinking right today. It’s a blank black chalkboard and I am forcing the white stick. I hate it when that happens. It’s either a blank slate or overwhelming thoughts scrambled like eggs. Either way, it’s hard to put anything sensible and cohesive together. Writing that is. It’s all I do and when I can’t, I get uptight. Wound up. Irritable. I just want to bleed easily.

By

Aaron Echoes August