the drawstring on my knapsack

When I was done with work for the day I spent some time re-doing the closures on my knapsack, swapping the overlong unfinished and fraying twine I found at Morris’s in Marrakech when the original drawstring bit the complete dust in the first place for the surviving intact lace on my hiking boot and using an interior segment of the broken lace to replace that littler string latch — the latter innovation a particular point of pride — I’m feeling it now — especially the way I melted the ends to really finish the job — all while watching a little Brooklyn Nine-Nine to feel comfort raised to the power of a push to get a move on, into the unknown for which I have willfully left all that, and then I began the walk into town.

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a wonderful storyteller

I said,

What if one day again we have a life where we see each other outside of the computer-phone and its applications?

Tonight I made hummus by fork out of chick peas cooked over a wood fire.

She said,

Rachel you are such a wonderful storyteller.

I said,

So far my manuscript is eighteen pages and that’s just from transcribing about seven days of texting with you and four days of texting with Darwin.

It’s sort of a big mess, but I am trying to remember your words, or the broader implication of them.

The mess doesn’t matter now, even if it means I have to look at myself writing in the STUPID WRONG FONT.

The form is informed by the process.

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