Liberties There's nothing Artificial about our Intelligence

Sunrise lines a cloud: flamingo silk in an old fur coat. Seagulls catch the wind like scraps of paper.  She’s been up for hours, wrapped in her old plaid bathrobe. Migraine. Lightning flashes behind her eyelids. She drinks her coffee and writes: the tattered world.  Later there will be champagne and candlelight Phone calls from overseas. She’ll watch the full moon rise over the blue deeps and write a dreaming Fury. Who said to kill yourself for a man Is a waste of a good suicide? She hasn’t thought of Ted in years.