Prose: On Philip Glass, The Hours.

Gravity shifts to a place unknown yet beautiful. I wait, seething. As if I have stumbled upon a dead rat or a sunset, I am stunned. Where do the piano keys lead me? Away. I am Woolf, writing as if nothing matters, typing as if my life depended on it. It shines, it shimmers yet this underlying sense of hurt creeps in, unbeknown. It races, along the rackety floor boards, I lie in its wake, I chase it too. My lover and his back acne. My face and the rose cheeks. The 607 bus to Ealing, where I was a run away. I ran away many times, the comeback kid. Arriving with hair windswept. I am riding out, a free woman, this society has a granted my wishes as a free woman. Oh! The notes wind down and get lost. They become quiet and secret. I am an American wife, lonely with a baby. Who knows my sorrow, who can eat my marrow and cry these same tears I do? To float and drown is the same feeling of being surrounded. To the story of rich, lively hypocrisy.