The Mug
Four thirty in the morning and I write about Patricia. Over and over, editing her mind and body and perfect imperfections. Metaphor. Reference. Description. Work. Violence. Drink. Laughter. Sadness. Drunk. Stumble. Vomit. Shit. Then it’s me. Remembering how to breath again guzzling cold black dark roast coffee from “the mug” that should be capitalized like God or the ornate numbers of restless thoughts. The Mug is ceramic and argentate and has denim blue coniferous and mad denim shadow mountain silhouettes. A denim grizzly bear has a paw extending as if it’s going to swipe one of the mountains away. The waining moon looks like a sharp edge parachute with a brown stain holding it from underneath. Avian squiggles seem out of place against simulacra stars above the grizzly. The scene is overdone. The Mug was overfilled and the coffee is left to cool down within the denim blue depths of the interior. I’m sorry to put you back with who you just left, Patricia. But don’t worry too much. Your story isn’t about him
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