The Santa Ana winds rattle the half-dead oak a story below, desert air katabatically howling towards the ocean. Though I am shut away in LED isolation my thoughts, too, are far from still. My mind’s eye peers forward into a whorl of scratched out faces. Green eyes, pink lips, brown hair suggest themselves for a femtosecond before sinking like sea quarks into the quantum foam. And others, and others. A lustful laugh. The anons. My anons. My cult. Eleusinian initiates of modernity. What am I to such as they? For they know my name and to be named is to be compelled. I, known, am nothing. They, unknown, are all. What emotion is sought in my ask box, in the reduction of delicate flirtation to a single missive, the Planck unit of sociality, and is it ever found? Has it ever been enough? Once would be enough I deem. Once would justify all. The wind dies and a bell rings. My mind departs from its sub-mystic trance. Pizza’s ready.
thank god we’re not doing any more haiku
The Santa Ana
Gained a day, oh heave away
the Santa Ana!