"Monday
Me.
Tuesday
Me.
Wednesday
Me.
Thursday
Me.”
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Saturday
Drive My Car. Mother’s bar. Uncle Vanya. The most obscure in the most common. The most ordinary in the comical. Uncle Vanya… Dreyfus. Is the night tender? Volo. Secret bar in the corner. You wouldn’t think of it. Rags of red air in the afternoon
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Friday
11:00. Scarbourough. Park. Snow. Wet shoes. Dry. Walk. Sushi… Omakase. Bar. Warm second floor, dimly illuminated with birdcages without birds. Window looks out the street… Do you remember that no why dont you Why Yes, why Something new. To be Yes i don’t think you should To be something new Why Because One gets old…
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Monday
Woke up 6:45 scorching and oppressive room. Sunrise. oatmeal. nothing for an hour or so. Thought about homework. Did some homework. Unwillingly. Chatted with an “old friend.” Went to class. dinner. Unagi don. friend chicken. now im at my desk writing this as I edit posts from before, which are just so full of shit.…
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Sunday
Blistering cold. “I think too much because I have nothing to think.”
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Friday
Oh i just did it i just spent thirty minutes browsing through the most useless things that i think are useless right now but you see thats only right now and i have no reason to keep thinking about it because the continuity of time is continuous so i wouldn’t think much of it if…
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Wednesday
I don’t know where to go. Everywhere there’s snow, and the sun moves like a slug. Then it rains and the sun scorches. The black road melts. You step into the mud… the lugubrious mud of lustre. Noon… I woke up late. .
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Tuesday
Uh oh. “Possessing by letting go of things was a secret of ownership unknown to youth.” Mishima. I’ve used a lot of “something” and “nothing” in the past month. I know; I needed to get the relation down. The interplay between them.
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Thursday
The sea is warm and dark and pregnant of words and ecstasy and nothing. Smoke curls on the wet street and sleeps like a slug. On the bottom of your feet, you awake. The sleep explodes. “It is not odd, therefore, for him, a sick person, to have a keener sense of health; for a…
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Tuesday
White trees white nights white space white sun white rooms white emptiness wet streets white nights white nights white nights… the notion of some suffering thing. The corrugations of sun… ages. forgets, warms, dies… echoes of images. Some sweet suffering thing, white as an image under the sculpted sun. …
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Trees, Illusions, and Shades
Somewhere, someone dreams of me. The sand repeats other sand, the mirror other mirrors. I am an abstraction among abstractions, a dream among other dreams–an emptiness that echoes the voluptuousness of nothing. A dream is a plethora, a plethora is a dream, lost in the ecstasy of shadows, the warmth of forgetfulness, within which I…
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