Right now I can’t read too good
Don’t send me no more letters, no
Not unless you mail them from
— from “Desolation Row” by Bob Dylan
It starts with dread. In a distant city, on top of the covers in a two-star hotel, ceiling fan humming and circling slowly, mosquito net shrouding the bed. Or driving alone on the late night interstate, rolling by strip malls and chain stores. Or walking down an everyday street, feeling empty inside. Dread has a physical quality — a dead weight on my chest and shoulders, a gnawing sensation in my stomach. Nausea. A wish to jump out of my skin.
Within these sensation there is loneliness, despair, and the certainty of ceaseless separation. The dread is that my life will be like this from now on, and that it always has been like this and I have been so…
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