in a weird mood it’s 3am and dark. dimly i realize: there’s something about sylvia wanting me to stay awake because she was upset & the reason she got upset is because i fell asleep. it’s hard for me to understand this not because sylvia herself is inscrutable but because i feel really numb to everything in general (ie it’s not unique to her), i feel like a tide pool receding or a large desolate stretch of dry land, moonlit and windless.
Writer’s block is a half-accurate term for what can be better described as a self-inflicted lobotomy-slowdeath by a thousand tweets. I stare at the screen I live in and I want to get closer, have it devour me. I saw a glimpse of something new at the ninajirachi concert – as the music swelled and raged, and as the wall of sound hit me, i had a sensation like something was going to pierce clean, through the center of me, knife-sharp to my iceberg ribcage. A clean cut. Near-bloodless (like a good estrogen shot). I have this fantasy that there will be something underneath other than halfbaked ideas and listless impotence. But back here on earth I have no wound to speak of, just a surface-smooth body with an upper respiratory illness, a sore back, and too many unread emails.
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