i had waited and the nurse came in. the ticking was gone but i didnt notice until several years later.
her every line my eyes moved i followed. little curls lived in my
lips and i thought hard about how my hair looked.
i would have to say god wrote her half of the dialogue which ensued, but i dont care about god so i dont expect him to care about me. if god is a writer, then he is on strike.
in fact, re: the good lord, i'm too tired to want him watching with his preconceptions. it's never been before, the days and ways of coping. not down to the minute. not a single one of these magazines even comes close to falling off the edge of the table and denting the carpet, lying there for years on end, which is what my kind of magazine would do.