Maybe I’m crazy, but I feel better somehow, if you want to know. I don’t to think about it anymore, either.
But I’m glad we talked it over. I’ll never bring it up again, either, and that’s a promisse.
She takes my drink and puts it on the table, next to the phone. She puts her arms around me and holds me
and lets her head rest on my shoulder. But there’s the thing. What I’ve just said to her, what I’ve been thinking about off and on all the day, well, I feel as if I’ve crossed some kind of invisible line. I feel as if I’ve come to a place I never thought I’d have to come to. And I don’t know how I got here. It’s a strange place. It’s a place where a little harmless dreaming and then some sleepy, early-morning talk has led me into considerations of death and annihilation.
Raymond Carver, Where I’m Calling From: New and Selected Stories
Photo Bill Brandt
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