Interrogatives
Interrogatives What is the question that keeps the ceiling awake at night? Does it pace the plaster like a cat of quiet consequence, tail twitching with theories, whiskers brushing the cobwebbed corners of consciousness? What is the weight of a question when it sits on the chest at 3 a.m., knees tucked, whispering like a librarian of the dark who refuses to shush herself? Is silence empty, or is it a warehouse of unsaid symphonies stacked in the dark, waiting for someone to strike a match of meaning? Where do lost keys go—to a small brass purgatory beneath the couch, or to a symposium of objects debating the metaphysics of misplacement? Who taught time to whisper tick tick tick like a polite assassin clearing his throat? Does he sharpen his seconds on a whetstone of worry, or does he nap in the hammock of habit while we run marathons in place? Why do we name the enormous questions with capital letters, dress them in velvet syllables like God, Death, Love, as if wardrobe could disguise ...
