Originally posted on The Drunken Odyssey:
AREAS OF FOG #37 by Will Dowd
The nights were cold this week, and so were the days; the sun, when it appeared, flashed like a coin at the bottom of a well, and the rain fell whenever it felt like it. It was really and truly November, though I couldn’t quite accept it. I walked down my street kicking acorns and attempting to reattach fallen leaves.
I have never properly read Moby-Dick—it is the white whale of my reading life, the rippling shadow that glides under the surface of American literature and will someday swallow me.
All I really know of Melville’s novel is that the albino sperm whale of the title is a symbol for, among other things, an unknowable God.
(Maybe that’s why the…
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