Surrounded by all things bright and beautiful, writing all things dark and gloomy.
Notre Dame has burned today. Our lady of sorrow, Of culture, of burned. Glow through the night, flames, Through glass we cannot make again.
It's hot. The air is still and dead. A sour stink creeps up from the beach as seaweed crisps up on the stovetop sand. We sit on the porch, three of us shaded in Adirondack chairs, Stella sprawling in the sun on the steps. A pitcher of iced coffee sweats on the plant stand in the corner. Ice cubes clink and swirl in our glasses as we swig.
All of the fentanyl is missing. Dr. Lawrence sits before me with her head in her hands. From beyond the curtain behind her, the moans continue.