Brooklyn: tornado warning to be followed by heat advisory.

Bedtime: ice water to be followed by marinated potatoes and haricots verts.

all of the last songs I learned my father liked (in the style of mbc– home alone but with headphones anyway).

memories of reading next to him in the car, of looking out over the farmland, while he was on his phone, and I felt ageless, or, like all of my ages were nestled into the one, and the sun was a glorious, eternal, justification for our silent intimacies. of sitting outside in the dark while he smoked cigars and listened to cds; I was hesitant to go get a blanket, a book, a jacket, for fear that he would go to bed while I was away.

I looked away for a second and the tension broke into a messy yoke across the ground. Before I could do anything, it was partially cooked, flat, irregular. It is only the same because we remember it came from the same place. We shake hands and agree that there used to be an egg there. We sit next to each other across the country and listen to music. But no one can see it now.

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