Vignettes of December


Things with X are still fraught. And, I can’t deal with any more stress than I already am. This house isn’t mine. This house isn’t mine.

When will the sea be calm? When will the waves lull into periods of quiet storms? You won’t find stillness with me, but things can get raucous.

I need to start sending my full-length collection to publishers.


His death day is fastly approaching. How can it have been a year? Little do they know the dark that hides within. Some people are born to be sad, and I am one of them.

I am tired.

I always try to be a good person, but I’m not perfect. I make mistakes.

Why do we force people to continue living a life of misery? Do the would-be saviours get a spot in Heaven if they stop them?

Switzerland has suicide pods now. They have it right, you know? We talk of free will, but do we really have any at all?


This collaboration will be good for us, I think. Six writers, five poems each.

Dali used to take micro-naps and hold a key. Once he drifted off, the key would fall into the dish below and wake him up. This gave him the ability to dream, which came through his paintings.

Dali was a psychopath. He pushed a boy off a bridge when he was five and thought it was funny. He hit the doctor who tried to pierce his sister’s ears when he was six. Dali took pleasure in being sick after that because he said, “[I]f only for the pleasure of seeing the little face of that old man whom I had reduced to tears.”

Eve Babitz died. I should finally pick up ‘Slow Days, Fast Company’.

Christmas is coming, but it is never the same as back then.

Let’s hope the New Yorker accepts this story.

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