Troy Jollimore
That sound that sometimes enters the world as thunder, at others as the boisterous crashing of waves. That rustling in the bushes that designates either the wind or the twitching of unseen lurkers. That smile from the bride at the altar, expressing nothing or else confessing I wish it were not him but you. That siren’s wail telling you this is a test, this is only a test, if it isn’t screaming you and everyone here are about to die an unpleasant and very newsworthy death. That kiss that translates as your life has just ended but possibly means your life is only beginning. That buzzing that says that you’re getting old and your hearing is going, unless, of course, a swarm of bees is nearby. That look from a beautiful stranger that means keep your distance or maybe it means come closer, I get off at eight, I have a room on the third floor, here is the key. That little red splotch on the skin that signifies nothing at all, unless it’s a sign that you should perhaps get it checked, though of course it’s already so late that getting it checked will not save you. That sweet post-sunset moment of melancholy that’s there to remind you that this life, your only life, is not really yours, that you have assumed it like a disguise, that you should have done what you really wanted to do—trained as a chef, a guitarist, traveled the world as a broke and itinerant vagabond—and means, as well, that on such evenings any existence you might have pursued would have felt like something assigned or stolen, that time flows in one direction only, that now it takes three drinks to make the music sound the way it’s supposed to sound, that the taste of the air on late summer evenings is always a little bit bitter, always a little bit tinged with regret, that this is your language, your city, and no one but you can speak it, and no one but you can save it. %CODE_MORE_INTERVIEWS%