the midway point of the six months of silence

there have been losses, predictably, especially in the month of december. november saw a placid downfall, january, a foreshadowed surge. if you were not there, fires happened in the barrels and they kept us warm, me and the one who speaks like a lake, the one with no fingertips left on her gloves. there were others who showed up as well: chileans, map-makers, our hound, and of course this weekend, the stuffed bear that lives. marquez was closed, and was reopened with giddy trepidation: in britain they left it off the non-fiction shelf; how could such a tale be true? we've moved on to existentialism and sitting - funny how fiction seems to square itself against itself in the dark of the early evening. despite the ice that falls but never sticks, we are making it - today the butcherman sent in reinforcements of different sorts. he is the one that hails from the dominican islands and like his brothers, he looks out for the silence with reverence and a skeptic's glare. it was mentioned that soon the catchers and pitchers will report. baseball looms. -brooklyn, 2008