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Twenty Seven February 12, 2014

Posted by The Typist in 365, cryptical envelopment, The Narrative, The Typist, Toulouse Street.
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Grim, she said.

Bleak, I answered, thinking this somehow an improvement. There was a look.

[Road noise].

Grim suits me, I said.

No it doesn’t, she answered.

I still got a kiss as I dropped her off, and a smile. Someday I will understand how she tolerates me, and Dr. Phil will be our best man.

“You have a melancholic personality,” he said, fingers steepled in reverent medical detachment. I scanned his office for the jar of leeches. In his office, meant to be comforting in its dimly-lit muted colors, the couch was a cold black vinyl, reporting every squirm of affirmation.

Ask a Russian “how are you?” and they will tell you in grim detail exactly how bad. I am thinking of ordering a Ushanka hat and a case of vodka.

Neither grim nor bleak, I think. A thoughtful melancholia, put down into words, is a great tonic.

Drift into Rimsky-Korsakov’s Scheherazade. Imagine outside the concert hall Russian winter, bleak and grim. Imagine what happens if the words no longer come, be they sanguine or sad. Let no sparrow fall unnoticed.

The ocean conducts The Typist into spindrift monsters or moonlit ripples according to its own mood.

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