There is in love two strange perfections. In The Stranger, mother was already dead, and so perfect as the plot's origin. I don't remember the rest. Odd that it's American teens' first French novel; confront your existence in simple sentences. Verb forms are like lost wax, time impressed in the hollow of a phrase. An orange cone sits in the middle of an enormous puddle. That draws our eyes. There are two mothers to each of my children, a plaintive arithmetic. I thank them for our sums. Our algebra is not linear, but punctuated; verbs cross paths in costume. Even after she hurdled over the railing of the ninth floor parking structure, she looked happy on Instagram. Left gifts for her family on the roof, chocolates and an iPod. The one question Camus asked, my teacher said, regarded suicide. He opted for mystery, being's extension. Hair pieces more perfect than the real, thicker and more curly. The last photo was of a city park, drenched by street lamps. From a wooden bench, another woman takes the photograph.
--10 May 2015