And that’s their fall, and that’s their fellowship. Desire. The hood in the bucket: the gulf of yearning into which the soul empties itself. He drops a note. The discord is his tribute to them.
Every spring day for over sixty years he has picked a blossom from the cherry tree; every spring day he has placed it on the lady’s grave, as his father and grandfather did before him.
I love you very much. I don’t care what you’ve done or who with. All I want is not to have to share you with the whole wide world. That’s all. I want you back.
Someone out there can’t get me out of his head, birdie. Someone out there is starting to believe he IS me, and it’s been keeping me up nights, if you know what I mean.
Desire smells almost subliminally of summer peaches, and casts two shadows: one black and sharp edged, the other translucent and forever wavering, like heat haze.