Every Day,
A Century

Outside of Sleep

It was above the delta, a bridge no one calls by name, when Eric realized he was on acid, hours after taking it, minutes after deciding to drive, seconds after looking up at the bloom of snowstorm only upstate embraces with nonchalance and gripped by what he describes as rampant fear, he drove only slower but allowing flakes to shutter what light the city spared from lampposts—little generosity of the district outside of sleep, and now knowing what worked out or didn't, what couldn't end, but did, wouldn't he look up at the snow for longer than he did.

Florencia Varela


Copyright © 2012 - 2023 Every Day, A Century