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The Whole World Is Gone
Driving alone at night, the world’s pitch, black velvet stapled occasionally by red tail lights on the opposite highway but otherwise mild panic when the eyes’ habitual check produces nothing at all in the rearview mirror, a black blank, now nothing exists but the dotted white lines of the road, and the car scissors the blackness open like the mind’s path through confusion, but still no clarity, no arrival, only Pennsylvania darkness, rocks, cliffs, vistas by day that thicken to black. It’s sensual, though, too, and interestingly mental. What I do alone, loving him in my mind. Trying not to let imagination win over reality. Hurtling through the night passions so spent become facts one observes. Not tempered, just momentarily out of view by the body that perceives them. Turning that into my prayer: to be deprived.