If you follow me where I’m going
It might take time, but you never know
My gun still shoots
And my bird still sings
These tricks are tricks
I learned from a king
And I’ll sing myself sick
I’ll sing myself sick
I’ll sing myself sick about you
(tasteful organ outro)
Then I wish for whatever is flowing between us to remain unnamed, formless, unmeted into story or ever “experienced” in the past tense, and so concluded; I don’t want to say it, I don’t even want to try to understand it, and so begin to mistake it for something else, and something else after that, paling shadows of this original feeling, something inaudibly delicate that would not survive the passage into speech.
From Karen Russell’s forthcoming novella Sleep Donation.