As glass separates rooms and the world, hanging illusions of each, I hang a window of words to describe the scene, and end up beating my wings against these mere reflections. Being the window would be the thing, but I'm only inside or out. The fortunate moths have no idea that they have no idea. I have the idea and nothing else but reflections. The shared voice of breeze and trees says things I can't. How can I write on air?
Ordinary Night
As glass separates rooms and the world, hanging illusions of each, I hang a window of words to describe the scene, and end up beating my wings against these mere reflections. Being the window would be the thing, but I'm only inside or out. The fortunate moths have no idea that they have no idea. I have the idea and nothing else but reflections. The shared voice of breeze and trees says things I can't. How can I write on air?
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52/137: One (not so fine) Day
Somehow I managed to cook an actual dinner Saturday, and today I managed to wash the dishes. I was thinking I might need the dishes to fix another…
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52/132 Through 136: Out of Touch
Damn, weeks are going by like hours and hours like weeks. The clearest memory since the last time I posted is waking up from an afternoon nap (I…
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52/131: Swelter
I'm quite sure the Idernet is lying about how sweltery it is around here today. It is saying it is 88 degrees outside, but I believe it to be closer…
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