NOTES ON EL CONDE
The servant departs after asking my leave and I follow him to the door. It is cold; snow lies upon the ground and frost and fog cover what can be seen no longer. I push the door shut. The door is not going to be much help…it does not want to close tightly.
I push the door shut; it does not fit well and I need to push with all the force I can muster. There are holes in the wall and I can hear the heat escaping. It makes a soft and low whistling noise; barely audible. The heat always escapes. Whistling soft and low. I imagine a draft that chills my ghost, my inner empty self.
It will be a cold night. I push the door shut. I feel the dread of the cold and the impossible nature of the door and the room and the holes in the walls. I need to escape as well. Maybe my death will be a relief. I may even whistle softly as I leave.
G. M. Goodwin
29 October 2024
Playing Fair and Being Kind 