While you're busy doing that, I sit and write. I chip away. I add an adjective here, a comma there. I delete periods and replace them with semicolons. There are long sentences and flowery descriptions. There are halfhearted experiments in the second person and, when they fail, desperate migrations back to the first person. I am the mediator trying to bring everything together into something that resembles one body, one form. I don't think it's possible, July. These people have to coexist separately, as individuals that share a vast space.
I mean, the second person narrator has relentless muscle spasms and wants to sleep all day. She picks at the bark on trees. She tells me to forgive, to move on. She barks commands until dusk and then wanders into some kind of exhausted trance and is inconsolable. She googles herself and plagiarizes what she finds. She does not capitalize. She laughs too loud. She wants to be noticed. She wants to be left alone.
The first person narrator is desperate and clingy and needy. She pauses often. She wanders off into the third person. She sometimes returns for a hot shower, or to hang up wet laundry, or to pick crumbs out of the carpet, but then she wanders away again. I don't know where she goes and she doesn't want me to know. She thrives on mystery and surprise. She wants you to break your promise, which will prove that she was right all along. She wants a dry martini. She wants to throw the glass against the wall, wants to listen to it shatter. She is unable and unwilling to be tied down. She does not want kids.
July, when it's time to pass me off to August, how will you feel?