There are always worse things you could do.

what’s the opposite of deja vu? To think nothing happened when something really did? That terrifies me more. Repeating reality could be a comfort… but not knowing what I missed? To only be aware of a gap?

Today was all right. Hopeful. Any progress feels good. I can breath. Literally, figuratively, the whole shebang.

Every season is different. We go through them every year, but this fall was not the same as last. The outlines don’t change, warmth in summer, despair opposite; the general idea persists. This winter is different. The nights seem longer. Deeper inkwells. An abyss. The Abyss.

I don’t want to talk about blood because I’m not bleeding. I feel empty. A ghost without his sheet.

I guess I'm back. It was a long winter. Too long. I feel the edges tightening, closing in. I feel like I'm running through the floor in a canyon and at the edge of a jagged pass there is a little opening and I can reach my hand through it and it's so small the rock edges cut into my skin but I still reach through and my hand is free, at least a bit, and I can hear the rushing flood coming from behind me.

Who thinks about you at night? Who notices the gap between them and the edge of the bed?