head in the sand.

The next Friday, they arrived. There was no talk of dried rinds. She climbed the hill, lay down in the weeds and wept. Two sisters left, Dad laughed. Others took up aeronautics. Damage had been done and would be lived with, on a mountain, in a small town, in cities, in sleep. They drove around and around the golden city following the rules of the road. They had forgotten their destination. On rare occasions when her genius was acknowledged she considered disrobing. Otherwise it was folded in the drawers and they fucked like rabbits. The moon chipped its enamel, the man was put in a soft cage. There he could holler all day if he liked, and have plenty of time for reflection. She found something online about forceps, something about strawberries with balsamic. There was only ever so much insurance. Thanks for the help, but I prefer to be wrong. There was a beautiful song filled with regret, longing and wild red strings, but he would never turn over the rock. Several months passed and it was like a burning forest just beneath the epidermis. He was very determined, very accomplished. An old woman watched him walk across the town, a sweet boy, she thought, trying so hard. He will keep coming back. It is a mutually beneficial arrangement. One gets to disappear. The other is kept alive.