i feel like my insides are raw.
what is that?
no, really. i mean, i know i am full in there, with organs and blood and tissues and whatnot.
but why do i feel hollowed out and raw?
i don't process things well lately. everything is super 8 films, with no soundtrack.
my limbs are empty and sore, the boxes that surround me in the basement are like a kingdom.
i want a ceiling with pipes coming out of it, like a highway system or a map to someplace i have never been.
i'd like to hang ribbons from the pipes, i'd turn on a fan and imagine they're on poles, lined along a beach near where i grew up. flying and red, the sky grey against them, criss-crossing like veins, or the capillaries that are like a lattice on the whites of my eyes.
a sheild for birds to fly through, and hands to grab.
i think for the first time in my life i will start a paper journal. a fountain pen to scratch, rice paper to mark.
when it's full, i'll give it away.
