SWORDFERN
Rooted, I used to think.

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Giving Notice - Friday, Sept. 29, 2017
Accepting Offers - Tuesday, Sept. 26, 2017
Indian/Polish Wedding - Thursday, Sept. 21, 2017
The Builder - Wednesday, Sept. 13, 2017
Rupert Part II - Sunday, Sept. 10, 2017


Wednesday, Jan. 14, 2004 @ 2:27 am
This city is ours.



We're sitting in Bimini's, the old crew, I'd missed them. There's something intangible I feel sitting next to Brian. He's married. Why do I not feel that with anyone else? We're walking down 4th. Rain is drippy and the air windy warm.

This city is mine. The rain welled up from inside me, the concrete laid there by my outstretched hand and my one open eye. You can pinch the moon and put it right there in the middle of downtown and then it's all on fire. Cold fire, all the lights that used to scream confusion now cry out in gentle beauty. This city is yours.


This she tells me:

Do you know what really went on that night?

I found him watching you and the new roommate. He was standing at the door, beer in hand, watching him wrestling you, holding you down and kissing your neck.

I took him away, dragging him by the arm, upstairs. He repeated over and over, "I need to talk to her." Over and over, I told him no and took him up away from you. He stumbled around for a bit and E. told him no too. He put on his jacket and left, beer still in hand.

E. said to me, "I've been doing this for way too many years. The guys appointed me The Protector. I thought it would be a temporary position."

There are thousands of people in this city and he was standing there on the threshhold of sanity, his heart shrinking into the shadowy corners of the party.


Roots | Shoots