Letters to the indifferent interior

My dear B--,

My opinions are many and varied, but the better of them get my pains going. I can hold onto one thing for only so long--say a lighter or the end of a butterknife and then once it's reached the temperature of my hand, once it's come to almost swear itself to my worn skin...something else grabs hold of me. To hang up the coats, or other things unnecessary. I can't say you've been any less distant than the things that line my arms now. There's the small bear made of wood. A halved orange like the moon. The ashen scraps of a picture that used to hold in its frame a visage I thought would never turn those bubbly and distorted colors even if all the fires I contain could wrap their tongues round it.

Summer has made its way into the interstates here--wildflowers and dead animals drape the sides of the roads. I've never been too fond of the heat and they only let the damned fans here spin at an rpm that wouldn't be enough to frighten someone with a quick arm or settle the need of one with the inkling to separate themselves from a limb or smaller extremity.

Balance is the key, or the chief has fed me enough language to believe this day. Enough hot and cold, enough sun and shadow, enough corridor, enough ambling, enough crosses and selling, enough states to capsize the conscious. They're not to switch the meds for another two cycles, so if things seem oddly consistent from my end please don't hesitate to make a mark of it in your calendar and see if you know any better route I can take if they allow for me to take a short excursion. You know my favorite time of year is just around the barking corner. The storms travel swiftly and open spaces that exist between us get filled with light.

Be kind and well,
H--