His past rips away from his future at the same time that his ligaments ripped away from his bones.
We cry, scream, love one another in hospital rooms. Old men offer chocolate bars and we offer love; it is the only thing we have aside from some Genovese sugar candies. Teletubbies in body casts stuff cellphones cigarettes lighters between their first and second skins. The pitch of our laughter is one between hope and despair; but we are much too stubborn, and so we raise the pitch until it becomes comical.
The day we are free we are imprisoned again in the web of bureaucracy. Declarations stamps tickets tickets tickets. Cancer feeds on breasts but not hearts. Frustration eats souls and love feeds. But is it feeding the frustration or the soul-eating?
“Writing is about explaining. What is going in your head when we don’t talk?” he asks.
“I am trying to make sense of what happened while I was talking…” I answer.