You’re never sure about the satin pink camisole. Nor the party to which you’d wear it. Nor the telepathy of pets: knowing when you leave the house they don’t approve. Nor possession by demons even though it’s all over Discovery while you’re getting ready— the Texan priest in Mexico calling out evil spirits from innocent little muchachas, the occult investigator in New England who finds herself battered on the bedroom floor, possessed by a goat. If a demon is anything at all, it’s a thing that haunts the duodenum. Fear of talking on the phone: demon. Desire to drown in a clear pool: demon. Love can be a demon, too. Look— I won’t always be here. I won’t want my boots muddied ad infinitum. A woman sits in an office, equally kelly green and bird’s egg blue, like a triumphantly solved equation. She wears the boots I was talking about. If she were a speckled sparrow I would talk about her in terms of bird fleas. But no, she is the exoskeleton, the experience outside, the opposite of possession. A man tells her: It’s your personal demons you need to worry about, not those religious ones. By now, you’re sure she is me. And the office is my brain telling me not to go to the party. And the office is a voice speaking inside me about all the things left to do, the never ending possibilities of overcoming. And the office is the room in which all of this fluctuates, peddles itself into infinity. Like a symbol. Like the thing itself, except not quite.
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