overheard at Ezra’s Pound
8 min @ Ezra’s Pound, Dupont St.
“Say something!”
We’ve been in this standoff for fifteen minutes according to the industrial sized clock on the studio wall.
I have accepted so many things over our three years. I have accepted you just as you are. You’re a freaking artist, you’ve never thought inside a box in your life. Maybe you really don’t know what the hell a box is. I like my boxes. Boxes are not bad things! I’ve screamed this at you too many times before, I know it will only illicit the same numb stare you wear right now. But there’s a recognition in your eyes and the pit of my stomach is dropping. I don’t know how far it can fall. How far can I fall? Outside of me I can see that I’m clutching the back of the old wooden desk chair so tightly my knuckles are lineless white. We are both staring at the picture on the table between us. I’ve never seen any of these people before but the guy in the middle looks like you, if you were a guy. My stomach is still falling, you know so much more than I.
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