how many nights have we rewritten

This is petrichor, I inhale. Wind knocks against trees.

There is no one else in the forest, and I wrestle against the instinct to go back.


I am trying to sketch a message from the sky. I am failing, always failing, to capture what’s significant, regardless of medium.


Here is 0.742% of the bits I am comfortable committing to public text:

The trees look like leaves.
Fire needs air.
Flour AND yeast.
Snowflakes = glass fractals.
“air” + “hang” = (“smoke”)



(awe + bewilderment) + wonder / (terror * magic) - fear = [creation * (life * (stars + (-mistakes) / subjective[mania])) / destruction (universe + (in / out))]^death

I need to know there is a base from which we spring, a common denominator. It must be an abstraction tied to survival. And it must be beautiful.



They were here first, the Instagram caption reads.


We have to be wrong about enlightenment. It starts in the ground. Maybe it really is impossible to manufacture authenticity.



I am tired. I don’t want to go on creating more bad things, contributing to the wasteland which the internet has become (inevitable pollution)

But one man’s trash–


We need bad in order to recognize good.

And good to recognize better.


We’re addicted, she laughs.

What is a life without filters?



I watch/listen/read my friends’ work. I am overwhelmed by it all. We are all doing our thing in separate corners of the same room, occasionally peeping outside ourselves to check out the view.

Here is the view. Blue black shadows, sky.

o my


One thought on “how many nights have we rewritten”

Leave a Reply