Been hoarding this assignment for a while because I have no idea what to do with it. So I'm going to approach it in the same manner of Didion's On Keeping a Notebook and see what happens.
Last night love entered my dreams, the slip reads, and then was morning. Wrinkled Bachi chocolate, blue foil, English translation, an after dinner treat pocked with hazelnuts, Bar Duelle.
This is my epigraph. It has been assigned to me and at empty times, I toss the words back and forth inside my head. Vague trails form--like a stick trailed through the sand of my thoughts: love, I wonder, or dreams--those heaving and intimidating abstractions that seek definition, the trained focus of memory--some example of maternity or relationship--the sticky touch of lovers or the starry-eyed lens of night as I wrap and toss in a blanket not my own. What do I talk about? Those nights, heavy with sleep beside Taylor, who, never faltering on her source of energy, rises from the bedsheet and mumbles in her sleep. Or how the sun, those slivers of golden-white, always find some way around the curtains to tickle at my lashes. When was the last time I dreamed? When was the last time I felt the sonic textures of the mentally formed dance along my fingertips? And why, whenever I see the word morning do I keep thinking homophones, that distinct salt of sadness--the kind you feel in foreign countries when all the world presses in with vowels and sounds, reminding you of your loneliness?
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