March 29, 2012


It is the unmaking of beds and the constant changing of linens to mirror moods. A sink that fills and empties like the coffeepot and a sense of purpose. It is the desire to fill mason jars with scribbled scraps and spoonfuls of soil. Where self-awareness and preservation meld into a single fractured rhythm heard faintly like a radiator. There aren't long enough showers to wash clean the meanings of this emotion and no tarot cards can read the situation. Among peeling days there is a timeline scratched out on white paper in black pen. A date is nearing, a supposed culmination of fibers and fears in a single Fibonacci expression. This volcanic personality is an interruption of tectonic platelets shifting beneath the sternum.

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