The Offline Mind

There are low flying birds this morning, but it might not rain. I didn’t cry yesterday, but I woke up at three in the morning knowing I wanted to. There are low flying birds by the water, their sorrowful bellies nearly skimming the waves. I didn’t cry yesterday, and I might not today, but there’s a feeling behind my neck like you’re sleeping and I keep trying to scratch it away. There was a pigeon walking beside me for an unusual amount of time. I asked him to stop. When he did I went back and sat with him a while. From my mother, I inherited a useless sort of beauty and the desire to buy too much fruit. From my father, I inherited an appreciation of long walks and of books. But my loneliness, I inherited that from you.