we dream in negative space

I want the air I breathe to maintain my body’s mystery. I worry I’ll run into you at a party then I remember I don’t go to parties so I’m safe.  I have no godly discipline. When someone yells I still huddle under a want for ice cream. How can you love people without them feeling accused

Writing is terrible. Because it is terrible, it is appropriate to complain about it. It is enjoyable to complain about it. Complaining about writing is writing adjacent and therefore entirely professional. It eats up time in which you might otherwise be expected to do more writing.

too much sense you tip into chaos / too little you create more

list of tender

Playlists for feelings you can’t explain:

the moon is a cataract that can’t see rats chewing bone-filled trash, the satellites passing above us making maps of everything we touch. a machine recognizes a human face, I forget everyone’s names, & somewhere a man is making a list of threats he’s calling law.

Every time the storyteller says the word ‘lover,’ replace it with 'self.’ The word 'self,’ replace with 'lover.’ Dizzying, isn’t it? When vertigo sets in, plant saplings. Replace 'lover’ with 'cedar’ or 'dogwood.’ Replace 'self’ with 'poplar’ or 'sugar maple.’ Keep swapping out words until no one is left but the forest.

what question does the self ask at the body’s behest that time won’t wring from the body itself?

two characters: have a sun/moon dichotomy going on