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I said the mountains looked like white elephants.

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4/25/07 12:48 am

Blue Period
Launched and exploding down the strips under a perfect European sky, we rode all night. Except only the sun was missing, with all its furry.  In our silvery gleaming car we sped like rockets from the shores of the ferry to the middle of Holland. We were excited, speaking in fast fragments, breathing quick mouthfuls of hot recycled air. And from the passengers’ seat I remember how austere the landscape was, like a painting I said, the glass foggy with breathe; I drew stars and hearts across the slick of the chilled window. I thought of Barcelona, I thought of You.

     You pronounced it “Neverlands” and said it was because there was no other land like it. We snuck into the Gardens where they were growing long-stemmed tulips to die and that is where we smoked our hash, by the blue ones under a sunset tree. And then, loopy lightheaded and giggling we climbed the trunk, testing branches with our fingers and toes. We made it to the very tip-top and from way up high you said, “The view from here everything looks so, Picasso.”  

4/14/07 03:20 pm

I hate my life here and I want to move away.

3/8/07 01:27 pm

The dream of disembodied birds-I'm not sure if you would consider this a dream or a memory, because it actually happened, but when I fall asleep I see the room in which I mourned the death of my son. For those of you who were there, you will remember how we sat without speaking, eating only as much as we had to. You will remember when a bird crashed through the window and fell to the floor. You will remember, those of you who were there, how it jerked its wings before dying, and left a spot of blood on the floor after it was removed. But who among you was first to notice the negative bird it left in the window? Who first saw the shadow that the bird left behind, the shadow that drew blood from any finger that dared to trace it, the shadow that was better proof of the bird's existence than the bird ever was? Who was with me when I mourned the death of my son, when I excused myself to bury that bird with my own hands?
-Safran Foer

I've never read a terrible literary work that used birds metaphorically.

I think I've found the object of my next short story.

2/10/07 11:56 pm

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