image from Whitest Boy Alive's album "Rules"
WHY I WRITE
My father rolled up our house and walked into the forest. When he arrived at the edge of the world, he turned, pulled up the road, cracked it once like a whip, and folded it into his suitcase. Then he turned and folded up the night.
”I’m going now,” he said, and left.
I pointed to where our house once was. I pointed to where the road once was. I pointed to where the night once was.
“We are inside a suitcase,” I said, “a vast suitcase surrounded by birds. One of these birds has the handle of the suitcase in its beak. It dare not sing else the suitcase fall.”