When the hands that hurt finally pull themselves off of your body, there is a heartbeat of time where you realize you can't-won't-don't want to tell anybody. Because you're afraid people won't believe you. Because you're afraid that if they do, they'll hate the person those hands belong to.
That is all I want to say about heartbeats, and silence.
In the frowsy warmth of Folklorama halls, in line between the steam tables and the bar, my head spins with a little deja vu.
I'm not so old yet, I don't think, almost 32, but some of these poster boards on the gymnasium walls, well I swear they've grown up with me. I swear I've seen these same ones for a decade, maybe more. I wonder where they spend their winters, how they pass the 51 weeks of the year where their trivia goes unread. Are they stacked in a cloakroom somewhere? Does an earnest volunteer take them home? If so, is it the same one every time?