I have had so much genuine emotion in the last year that turned out to be based on some miscommunication or misunderstanding on my part. As though the Sanskrit you all speak carries hidden words and fluctuates in temperament. As though the flare guns you are all firing off are celebration instead of panic and stranded nights in ravines. Fuck words at this point. Either Create or Destroy or Express the inexpressible with your bare hands. All I want to do is write, or fight or fuck; because even misconstrued these things stand on their own.

I don't even recognize mistakes anymore. I over-correct for long-forgiven stumbling over words. I cherry-pick whatever detail titillates or devastates me. I assume the world to be either catastrophe or an idyllic morning after. And when we pour ourselves out we risk dispersion and evaporation, but most importantly we may be drank and absorbed.