that the lies may fly out

You were in a dream I had last night, in your town, holding the Nouvelle Anthologie Francaise open before you, base of spine on table and probably only pretending to read.

A disjunction between flux and stasis and I appeared missing, saying you are life, its disastrous, bewitching persistence, full and despite.

You listened, smiled, and said your three favorite things are gin, cigarettes, and people without secrets. They’ll be on the menu, I replied, not trying so hard. But secrets are like tempers, everybody has them.

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