#kafk-a

I wait every year for summer, and it is usually good, but it is never as good as that summer I am always waiting for.

Magnificent, somehow. To give in. Wreck yourself so completely. The beauty of it.

Here is my hand, my heart, my throat, my wrist. Here are the illuminated cities at the center of me, and here is the center of me, which is a lake, which is a well that we can drink from, but I can’t go through with it. I just don’t want to die anymore.

Reading is anguish, and this is because any text, however important, or amusing, or interesting it may be (and the more engaging it seems to be), is empty—at bottom it doesn’t exist; you have to cross an abyss, and if you do not jump, you do not comprehend.

Names of poisons, names of handguns, names of places we’ve been together, names of people we’d be together.

You are a fever I am learning to live with, and everything is happening at the wrong end of a very long tunnel.

You could drown in those eyes, I said, so it’s summer, so it’s suicide, so we’re helpless in sleep and struggling at the bottom of the pool.

Is it the sea you hear in me, Its dissatisfactions? Or the voice of nothing, that was your madness?