In the dead of winter, dead of night.

Whenever I’m down — whenever I’m feeling unfashionable (though I know I hide it well, kicking up my heels in front of the extravagant Christmas tree and all) — I like to think about literature. It makes me feel better. Not just any literature, mind you, but one specific book: Cormac McCarthy’s The Road. This book, more than any book I’ve ever read, makes me feel lucky to be alive at this very moment, no matter what type of dire situation — emotional, financial, or otherwise — I may be in at the same time. And I say this completely and totally earnestly.

Here is a brief excerpt — one of the most moving moments in the book, in my opinion:

What is it, Papa?

It’s a treat. For you.

What is it?

Here. Sit down.

He slipped the boy’s knapsack straps loose and set the pack on the floor behind him and he put his thumbnail under the aluminum clip on the top of the can and opened it. He leaned his nose to the slight fizz coming from the can and then handed it to the boy. Go ahead, he said.

The boy took the can. It’s bubbly, he said.

Go ahead.

He looked at his father and then tilted the can and drank. He sat there thinking about it. It’s really good, he said.

Yes. It is.

You have some, Papa.

I want you to drink it.

You have some.

He took the can and sipped it and handed it back. You drink it, he said. Let’s just sit here.

It’s because I wont ever get to drink another one, isn’t it?

Ever’s a long time.

Okay, said the boy.

And now, the poem(draft):

Apocalypse Provisions

O my little sand clam!

[rest-of-poem has been hidden away for the rest of its life. goodbye!]