His Future as Attila the Hun by Timothy Donnelly.
But when I try to envision what it might be like to live
detached from the circuitry that suffers me to cravewhat I know I’ll never need, or what I need but have
in abundance already, I feel the cloud of food-courtbreakfast loosen its embrace, I feel the shopping center
drop as its escalator tenders me up to the storyintended for conference space. I feel my doubt diminish, my debt
diminish; I feel a snow that falls on public statuarydoesn’t do so sadly because it does so without profit.
I feel less toxic. I feel the thought my only prospectlies under a train for the coverage stop. Don’t think I never
thought that way because I have and do, all throughblank October a dollar in my pocket back and forth
to university. Let the record not not show. I havedeserted me for what I lack and am not worth. All of this
unfolds through episodes that pale as fast as othersgain from my inertia: I have watched, I’ll keep watching
out from under blankets as the days trip over thedays before out cold on the gold linoleum behind them
where we make the others rich with sick persistence.But when I try to envision what it might be like to change,
I see three doors in front of me, and by implicationopportunity, rooms full of it as the mind itself is full
thinking of a time before time was, or of the infinitecouch from which none part, and while the first two doors
have their appeal, it’s the third I like best, the onebehind which opens a meadow, vast, and in it, grazing
on buttercups, an errant heifer with a wounded foot,its bloody hoofprints followed by a curious shepherd back
to something sharp in the grass, the point of a longsword which, unearthed, the shepherd now polishes with
his rodent-skin tunic, letting the Eurasian sun playupon it for effect, a gift for me, a task, an instrument to lay
waste to the empire now placed before me at my feet.
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