Providence, Rhode Island is the presence of a begrudging ghost who carries the weight of his lost potential. Unsure what success is, and no time to do what is good.
It comes through the glances of his disciples and the bends in the trees on Smith Street. My car then started making a noise when I hit the breaks, and I sweat with condensation in the front seat.
I poured out 3/4s of a drink over the fence outside of the show. I was about to drive and didn't want an open can in the vehicle. The same people from there show up on Matthewson Street and the book store, asking about my opinion on critical theory and if I know about the Chance Festival in Nevada from 1996 before there was internet and social media.
I like to imagine that all of these people are getting away from me and enjoying their time in Keene or Chicago, waiting to be documented of a part of something else. To be back in the swing of things is a feat in itself.
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