When, after many conversations about Woolf and Hemingway and DFW and Plath, you stepped off the map and over the bluff, catching one fleeting glimpse of the unknowable before ceasing to know anything at all and leaving our department with an empty chair, and when I got the news via email from the provost and for days afterward expected to wake up from that dream where someone important to you dies, only I never woke up, and now I’ve reverse-engineered this dream so that you are alive and we’re walking the city together or you’re laughing about some interdepartmental silliness, and then I wake up and instead of the relief that comes upon waking from the death-dream I face anew the ever-expanding space between these words and their antecedent.

What are the Sneaky Feels?

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AuthorJohn Proctor