Practice keeping opinions to yourself and you will find that no one actually wants to hear them

I see how you see

You'll find what I'm saying in what I'm not saying. And when I say what I really mean, without implication, you still won't understand. I talk to walls, maybe I like the sound of my voice? If I'm being honest, and maybe this is wrong, I'm just playing, experimenting, narrating the unseen, asking what you're begging anyone to ask, witnessing and reporting back. My favorite kind of eroticism is sterile, lab-like. Beakers, graphs, gloves. Good time, no mess

Everyone is behaving in ways they were never meant to and wonder why they're miserable. Embarrassingly quick to blame, making it easier to go on like that. What becomes of a naturalist when there is nothing natural left to observe? Feeling everything, nothing, everything. I'm unmatched and lonely in my curiosity. I'll be your friend and you won't know how to be mine. I don't need much yet somehow it is always too much. No more lessons—one will be left feeling incompetent and/or like they're not enough. Love is meant to be transactional, like me and the trees. the flowers and the bees. What is a naturalist, a lover, meant to do when nothing is natural? Everything I love exists in my imagination. I am left with loving the act of loving, which is, has to be, okay with me.

Does anyone count the days/weeks/months their parent goes without talking to them? I always imagine him dead in his small apartment. I call, he answers, and the counting starts all over again