stumbling over scribbled down notes from last year, i find some solace in these half forgotten words but nontheless i can’t get over the feeling of paranoia that another person must have written these letters, not sure if this stems from a well-known disbelief in my own change & journey since then or from an overall feeling of disconnectedness with myself : Last days of the march sun / lonely walks in the woods/ encountering no one but dead poets birds/ reading Anna Kamienskas notebooks/ her snail’s traces / of fragmented words and fragile thoughts / that let me oscillate somewhere between the desperate and the divine / by her sweet “entrancing sobriety of holiness" /oh, Anna, my saint of great hunger, and as for me, saint of indecisiveness and stubborness at once/ so, please, let me utter the poetic mumblings of a red-haired siren, my only sweet little guidance i need these days: “St. Jude, patron saint of lost causes / for i’m learning & i’m leaving & i’m trying to find the meaning / let the loss reveal it” /... let everything dissolve / - elusively, as i embrace the chaos within me, searching for the comfort in falling apart / following my humble litany / of trusting in springs and new becomings alongside the songs of birds…