I woke up coughing at 2am and periodically thereafter, lying incommunicado in the anteroom of the dreaming being visited by a-seasonal Christmas spirits.
One lay this across my staring eyes:
I would read Lydia Davis' most recent story collection and, inspired, compose my own tales in haiku form.
Somehow this would make me wealthy.
Then we would travel to Père-Lachaise seeking the grave of Marcel Proust, navigating the rolling mausoleum paths past steel dumpsters spilling decomposing flowers and Oscar Wilde's kiss-shingled tomb.
Arriving at last my wife would lay her fountain pen on the cool marble slab as an offering as I close my eyes and tilt back my head chanting
translate me, Lydia Davis
translate me, Lydia Davis
translate me, Lydia Davis
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