livingston

i have thought of that dead writer one last time. i spoke to her softly, told her that her book has been read once more. not often or quickly. but during a summer long ago on a beach. the sun was right. the water was warm. and some of the parts were good even if much of the language was old and clunky and i couldn’t recall what had happened the night before always. did she realize this would be a problem? was she awoken from her slumber and moved by the pouring tip of light among the winter of black? could my fingers lift her again into the dance of handheld elegance she wrote about then? did my dogears brush like licks on her bare face? did she answer me when i asked if she could consider changing this one part where the main character goes on too long, where he doesn’t describe enough, and where he doesn’t understand his self-referential irony in a book baked in it?

i continued, still. the last little pages were heavy. the book did not turn well. i was asked what am i reading by a passerby dressed in the drying wings of the waves. i answer about this character who is still going on now, annoyingly, unpredictably, even at the end.

who is the author?

i am sorry but i can’t remember their name.