Journal entry 22
Four months after Ev’s death,
life stops moving.
Everyone speaks words of
cardboard. The same song plays over and over, wearing out whatever emotions
used to exist in its notes. The world’s happy sounds are flat tones masked by
white noise. I am Buster Keaton’s blank face because I feel nothing. I drift on
the dead calm sea that old-time sailors feared when no wind filled their sails
and they moved to the ocean’s whims.
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