Never hit the edge of the sky like that before. I was out wandering around with a friend. We ran out of gas around the Mexican border somewhere in a national park and we decided to sleep on a concrete picnic table. I never saw the sky as big as that. I always knew there were more stars than I could see that night, but I never saw so many. If I were to tell you that it was like shining a black light on a porcelain sink, would that cheapen it? I suppose it would. Think of all the things you can’t see when you look down to wash your dishes clean. We don’t like to think about those things, do we? Last year’s crabs when you made gumbo. Yesterday’s chicken nuggets, the ones you bought at Sam’s to save money. The kids love those. They do. I saw their faces. Something like smiles.

I love the way you lose yourself in the drain. You just look straight down into it and watch the water disappear. We like to think that it swirls down into it, but it doesn’t really do that, does it? The sink is imperfect. The water doesn’t swirl. It finds a shitty misshapen easy way into it. Hell, not even the drain can afford us a gorgeous spiral. Even our metaphors aren’t true, and our half-assed sinks and their paths of least resistance are all we have.

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