A journal of narrative writing.
How Could It Be Otherwise?

The intimacy of all intimacies a woman will grant you is to be inside her, and that will be in truth everything you think you want, and about that you will be both right and wrong, such an everything being like every other everything a symbol, which is to say a truth like all truths a tenuous, insubstantial thing, since once inside you cannot stay, can leave behind at best only a memento, as you yourself once were, the product of a brief visitation, the sort of visitation you will dream of still, yearn for, contrive ways to accomplish, including pleading, wheedling, romancing, dancing, drink, lies, affectations, affections, hopes. And now and then it will dawn on you that the only part of you that arrives reliably, or less so, in that presumed paradise truly is the luckiest part of you, a dumb, ungovernable appendage you wear like a goddamn badge, a meaty slug hardly distinguishable from any other. And though you can taste her everywhere everywhere you go, though you've breathed her breath and pounded over years miles of happy rigidity into her, depositing in the process a ton of salt manufacture, there you are alone again, knowing almost nothing of her metaphorical heart and nothing at all of her soul, half convinced you must not have one yourself, for if you did wouldn't this access be the answer to something? Wouldn't a lock admitting a key open the door to a place beyond any gates of pearl and bone, an escape hatch you will by the time you finally die have spent a decade kneeling in prayer for and to, this body of mercy and individuality who has—how could it be otherwise?— no answers, and even less a way into you.