She's Back

There is no god, but there is limbo.

In my infinite freedom, I have ended up here. In limbo.

It is green here all of the time. Always.

I try to comfort myself that writers can survive anywhere. And, at the very least, there is internet in limbo.

I've been here for four weeks, and I am both weaker and stronger. Such are the contradictions of limbo.

Such are my contradictions.

Limbo has a soundtrack, forever on repeat. Sometimes I block it out and try to remember other songs I once knew, but the song always seeps back in, quietly at first, like a zen alarm clock, until it blazes in my mind, a supernova exploding. And, at the very least, I like Kristin Hersh.

Nice limbo you have here
Nice limbo you have here
Nice field you have on
Baby go back to your womb
Baby go back to your womb

You grow the apples around me
I’ll spit the seeds in your grave
Bead me a necklace
A decade
I’ll wait

Picture this gun
I’m tired of crying
I’m gonna run
I swear you
Move you
To my pores
I’m not gonna cry anymore

Dead is next door
Dead is next door

Baby go back to your womb
Baby go back to your womb