Sam Eisenstein

The Blind Fortune Teller Sam Eisenstein

The man sat hunched over a computer, flickering rays of light splaying through a dust-covered pine tree illuminating his face in blotches. He felt the checkered warmth on one cheek, the end of his nose and on his grizzled chin. The page in front of him was blank. Like my mind, he thought. I don't have the blazing incendiary need to get thoughts down. What are my thoughts approaching the eighth decade? Rumblings. As of the end of life coming. Not the sharp beak of sound made by a single bird. It is a cacophony of disappointments and would-have-beens. It is pursuing for momentary pleasure instead of a broad social network of bodies in harmony toward a common goal. It is traveling thousands of miles to be vague in strange surroundings. Wandering galleries and museums and American Express offices, hoping to snatch a female body out of her frame and surround her with himself, for however brief a time.