Mmmm.

Last night I took a quarter pipe to bed and imagined life without my father. All I saw was a glacial emptiness, a nuclear coldness, and yet possibility, too. But when was that ever lacking? I suspect I am entering the most deranged phase of my life. In the morning, my watch had broken. I immediately wrapped and posted it off to my horologist in London and then, trying to stun myself awake with a Turkish coffee, the signs slowly dawned. I was in the garden, a child. The voices of beautiful women. The terrible coldness. And then the fear my father would ruin it, his fierce love, and then the fear that he wouldn't. I drifted to another place, perhaps Eliot's rose garden, and from there to the unlovely decision to run my hard nails down Helen's cool arse.