I buried a sparrow today.
Even though she wasn't breathing and her little neck would flop at the slightest movement, I was still deathly scared that she might still be alive. I swear I heard her chirp. I lifted her little body and wrapped it carefully in a paper towel, for want of a better burial shroud. With a rusty trowel I dug a small hole outside, under my window, with marbled orange river rocks for a headstone.
In my mind I call her Maybe.
"Maybe sparrow, it's too late." -Neko Case
Being buried alive must be the most awful way to die. You're trapped and there really is no way out. The walls close in and you're suffocating as you use up your last breaths of air. Sometimes being in this city is like being buried alive.
Notice: Sometimes being in this city is like being buried alive. More often than not, I love EL Paso.
I once said I didn't believe in coincidence, but they've been happening so frequently lately that I have to refute that statement. Maybe it's a sign from the universe, but it's disproved the last shred of faith I had in fate. I don't like the idea of fate. In my heart, I feel like the universe is telling my that my reality is malleable. Someone told me that, but I can't remember who.
Sorry, someone.
My fingers have frozen to the alphabet keys and it's occurred to me I am no longer making any sense or being the slightest bit entertaining.
Adieu.
P.S. I stopped biting my nails, just thought you should know.
