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I have this perfect laugh—I tell you—perfect. It’s part of the general feeling. I lift my coffee, suck it, then sneak out of the room entirely.

It’s newborn—cartilaginous laughter, laughter like an elephant’s trunk, you can see it sweeping across the dust, beating the dust in two.

But I can’t laugh at a Balthus painting. Or the humans moving from one interstate to the next. There’s not a freckle of laughter on Mondays.

But still. Teeth bare—little teeth—every time.

In the middle of the night, I hear dogs and wonder what it is. What could they possibly be howling after? Or is that a form?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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