I find a few parts of my old life I'd rather not remember...

but they treat me well enough at 3:33 a.m. on what I've come to call a "friender".

Busy busy rekindling old ties with fast friends who folly towards solitude, like me. But don't we always fail in our lonely attempts and come crawling back to the beginning, which is also us?

The narrative thread winding through my disjointed dialogue with death or something close to endings. I tied my tongue with threads thieved from tyrants tough and troubled, their audience aghast at such impurities of spirit sacred and sanctioned by said holy holiest of saints beneath our banner of dissent.

enough. relax and read, despite the distant thunder, despite the fallacy of hope, despite this breadth of bookshelves.

i remain reticent and solitary, waiting for your spark.


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