The end

The fibres are knitted tightly round the tear of that old life, and I'm starting to believe it was something I only read about. Once upon a time, there was me and you.

Dial tone

"Nobody in this family answers their fuckin' phones," she said, slamming the car door, her new boyfriend laughing politely, even though she was already out of earshot.

I recall her as a baby. A child of three. She moved away when I was 19 and she was still too young to say things like "fuckin' phones" - an unnatural utterance, even now.

It's cold comfort, because I know why that particular phone isn't being answered today, and so does she. I know why, but I don't know why. I'm not sure there's a true answer, or at least one that would speak to a shared reality.

I was going to start a blog today. Somewhere new to come out to, before remembering that nobody reads here anymore. It's okay. I don't need readers so much as a space against which to throw these materials - to try once more to divine the entrails. It's at least a little better than trying to divine the silence of an unanswered call. Isn't it?