Dukkha Days

I have a SERIOUS writer’s crush on S. K. Nicholas. He is as bad-ass and gritty a writer as I have read and his writing crawls into my head and stays there. We are probably as stylistically far apart as two writers can get but some part of me seriously wants to grow up to write my personal experience the way he does. I read this piece yesterday and cannot stop thinking about it. All I can think to say is “Damn.”

S. K. Nicholas

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Curled on the floor wearing just my dressing gown, I’m silent and without motion. Somewhere in the heavens above there exists enough planets to match the number of atoms in my body. Black stockings. Black lipstick. Near infinite fields of view with you reclining on a deck chair while nude and whispering my middle name. Ghostbusters 2 is on. That river of slime that flows beneath New York- it flows through my veins keeping me from escaping my dark half. It denies me from being the lover I need to be. But what would I write about if things were okay? If my days were an endless sunrise, what would I have to say that had never been said before? Opening and then closing my mouth, the dust of angel wings collects in my lungs and makes me gag. The London Underground is the intestines of this country, and I am the…

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