(no subject)

This used to be my important story: voices raised like the wind slamming out of the Hudson River Valley, the perpetual sensation of falling as you just hit sleep. Loss and cold and fear, noise so overwhelming it became silence.

Now, though — I am tired of that story. Bored. It is a ghost I can't exorcise. Toilet paper on the sole of my shoe.

I don't know what my important story is, now.