cherry tomato
Sometimes when I’m riding my bike in an unprotected bike lane and there is only a fragile invisible force field protecting me from oncoming traffic, a thin easily puncturable membrane, I think, amongst intrusive images of accidents and permanent disability, both hands crushed under the wheels of a bus, never being able to draw again, or being pinned between two cars pinched at the waist like a wasp, or turning sharply on the wet pavement slipping and falling sideways through the force field so a taxi runs over my head popping it like a cherry tomato, amongst these negative fantasies I sometimes think, but always forget to write it down later, I think, that if suddenly I die, whoever wants to read my diaries totally can, you can even publish them if you want, if you see any kind of value there. They’re on the third shelf of the bookcase in my room