Sunday, March 2 1992

I’m having a vision of my wife at forty-five, fucking young bartenders then throwing them back. It disturbs me in the same way a child can be disturbed by the unexplainable. A jet rushes in and I can feel another night slipping by as surely as if it were a plane already landed with only its passengers left to disembark.

Where do these feelings of separateness come from?

I know the difference between right and wrong, but in personal relationships don’t much care about it. I have a theory that no one really does, that it’s only in arguments and moments of justification that people seek out the higher ground in order to remain insulated from the sight of their previous selves.

I think the only moral certainties adhered to are those thoughtlessly achieved. All else is claimed or worn like so much convenient clothing, like wool in times of winter.

We were divorced within the year.

 

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