A French term used in English for the predicament of thinking of the perfect reply too late. English speakers sometimes call this "escalator wit", or "staircase wit”.
This is the spirit of the staircase, at the top step, of the top floor, of the highest skyscraper, in the world.
This is the final draft of your closing argument in the court room you’ve held to adore. And it comes complete with your honest as atoms chattering teeth.
It loses strength, along with sound, as it travels.
And by the time you realize that it’s just another opinion, fifty-four inches from your mouth, it becomes less than tangible, less than metaphoric, probably not a symbol, most likely less than an epiphany.
It could just be a sound. At the end of it all, what you are saying, it could just be a sound. Something like the sounds that birds make, the ones that sleep, with their heads in the sand, tired of hearing, all of the sounds, at the top of that goddamn staircase, where they fly, where they go to be alone, at the top of the staircase.
And still they sleep with their heads in the sand.
Because their wings are not doing them any goddamn favors.
I, personally, give up writing all of the time.
I usually start again when I hear the birds sing outside my window.
They probably give up writing more than I do.
They just have trouble sleeping in.