Weeks in-between spring and summer were bright; most times dull. I keep contracting my own deadline. I’m not hard on myself. I know I wanna do more things, but I’m just tired all the time. I already have half of a draft and whatever. Should I celebrate small things? I don’t wanna. I keep refusing things. I wanna stay in my head. I like it there. My friends ask me out. So I go outside too. I’m waiting for a review. It takes weeks. I’m reading similar stuff again and again. The nation-state is built out of damning repetition. I don’t need confidence. The question needs to be answered. I’m not fun. I laughed with them — mischievous sapphics. He comes back grounding me. I decided let’s go. The work is important but inessential, knowledge built out of curiosity, less necessity, but perhaps the ones I want to know are indeed ripples of the abundant problems we try to solve bit by bit, and when I fail this time I will try again better. I’m attending to parts of my body that haunt me so much. I will let them go, wish me luck. I stay with my best friend and her grief and with my best friend and her longing and stay with my best friend and his love and I stay with them through minutes of silence and breathing and I break friendships and rekindle the old ones. No more lies. Truth can be kind. Minutes unfold as I sit back to the double-screens of wording, tracing time without themes, pinning down the language of my institution. Talking in codes and crypts is easy when I don’t intend to make others solve the puzzle of my mouth. No diction from my dent is difficult. You know it, you grasp it. And yet, we don’t communicate in a way we understand, because I need this object to just float around the void with less vain and more vanity. I like meaning without bland aesthetic. It helps me make mockery against the fascist. I laugh at them for their bad taste, bad politics, bad bad bad. We are parts of our traumatic sum and so we go against this world. Staying on the grass makes me realize how I love green smell. I look up a lot to the sky to the bird. I don’t get to fly. I’m around. I’m built to not belong but to rhyme and rhythm. Are you done with self-pity? Grab my hands, and let’s walk, and sleep, and kiss, and hug, and all the touches we allow for each of our skin. You’ve undone me. And I’m with you.