I keep writing things and erasing them, writing, erasing, writing erasing. Oh I don’t want to tell the whole world about this. Oh I don’t want her to see that. I don’t want to lie and I don’t want to tell the truth. I don’t want to overshare and I don’t want to seem cold and reserved. Should I stay or should I go? I had a Monte Cristo for lunch. It sounds like there’s sleet falling outside, on the roof, on the roads, on the trees. I spent my childhood afraid of growing up, afraid of power, afraid of responsibility, afraid to live, afraid to die. Sometimes I cry helplessly when things are too beautiful. I could use some new clothes. I take pills to make me feel better and also I use the air, air itself, the air moving in and out of my lungs, slowly, deliberately, to remind me that I am here, my body works, I can count to six or eight and the sky is often, though not always, blue. More and more often lately, I remember my dreams.
recorded history the shape of unshaped sand