diary / by Edward Mullany


Sometimes, when I go to the museum with my friend, she gets bored before I do, though she doesn’t tell me right away, but continues to wander with me from room to room, though no longer in an orbit that’s distinctly her own, but rather in a lethargic, almost dissociative way, so that I’m always aware of her presence, and she’s always beside me, not unlike a child, where if I stop and turn to her and say her name and smile, I can see her eyes come back into focus, from wherever they’ve been, as if, in order to maintain her demeanor, in this place where people are looking at art, to which she no longer has the wherewithal to attend, though generally she likes it, and for a time will find it absorbing, she has yielded completely to daydream.