from SENTENCES SCRIBBLED IN A NOTEBOOK OTHERWISE EMPTY
Our vanity out lives our lives, the difference between what humanity means and human is.
Marie Antoinette, Cleopatra, Caesar, Napoleon, Pretty Boy Floyd.
There’s a sickness in me. Sleepwalking to work and home and back again in the rain all afternoon on a Saturday, sleepwalking like a robot purposefully crafted from broken, ignoble parts.
Gertrude Stein, Nina Simone, Alcibiades.
What I screamed across the lake in the winter froze quiet, only arriving at its destination in the spring. But by then it was too late. In memoriam of her loveliness I’d already dyed my hair a thousand different colors. She was dead.
P.S. I’m never wearing what I think I’m wearing. ...
Helpless perplexity of volition, I never think what I’m wearing.
Can you hear me?
A whisper implies only two conceivable things: rumor or confession.
Consider the future of doorways where exits, entrances and escapes are inextricably entangled.
The more to fix the less a desire to fix anything. The more to fix a rumor turned fact.
Disciples of light, we are.
Escapes and entrances inextricably entangled. A mind alive farming emotions, tendencies, thoughts.
We all are.
Doorways long, long and wide.