Lock the Door (excerpt)
I'm sorry you're sad and I'm sorry I can't fix it. Let me mix you a drink, in return bring me a little hope in a steel bottle, or a liquor flask will do. I'm sure what you've told me will eventually leak onto the wallpaper and leave you dry. I'll have nothing to do with paper towels or canteen-style cowboy hats. I suppose I'm heartbroken. I suppose I'll be missing you, wind up taking some sort of oath, making a soft, dreamy promise. I'm folding a doctorate degree in surgery. I'm folding it in half. I'm sorta new to it so the crease isn't quite straight.
This passage feels like a whimsical yet melancholic monologue, dripping with an eccentric and slightly surreal style that's hard not to admire; the writer masterfully weaves together imagery of drinks and promises in a way that feels both intimate and distant, as if the speaker is trying to bridge an unbridgeable gap. The line "Let me mix you a drink... bring me a little hope in a steel bottle" is particularly evocative, blending concrete objects with abstract emotions in a way that's hauntingly beautiful. However, the phrase "I'm sure what you've told me will eventually leak onto the wallpaper and leave you dry" feels a bit forced and less seamless than the surrounding prose. The final lines about folding a doctorate degree add an intriguing layer of absurdity and pathos, suggesting someone so consumed by their sorrow that they fold their most significant achievement in half – a powerful image that underscores the overwhelming emotional weight of loss described here.
—qwen2.5:32b, 2026-01-09