Eyes Stung with Nighttime Cold.

Being tired beyond emotion isn't as bad as it sounds. Or as good.

Hold Onto Yourself by the Sleeves, I Think Everything Counts a Little More than We Think.

I've got little poked holes in my fingertips, the result of nothing more than nervous habit; my fingers fumble with and occasionally through the backs of my earrings. Three times in two days, I've stuck myself. Now when I reach out to touch, there's pain. My connection to the tangible world is flawed.

Usually I try not to look for symbolism, irony, et cetera, in my own life but I've been short on sleep and if I'm too tired to be mindful, I forget.

The Rate at Which the Universe Expands.

Almost falling down from the earth into the stars, smoky, sandy mouthed, we must have seen ten shooting stars. It didn't feel any different, to be one of them. Too have other stars staring back. There was no warmth or shine, only distance, a satisfying nothingness to existence.

The greyscale beach blended into the end toward the east; toward the west, everything was real. The night was too cold for gravity; something else was keeping me grounded.

How Strange It Is To Be Anything At All

There's something that feels so wholesome and safe about sleeping on a mattress on the floor of a best friend's gold-lit bedroom, a mug of Egyptian licorice tea in one hand, a pen in the other, a mattress at my feet.

I feel restored. I have hope for people again, it's magnified by the conversations we have, by the world through someone else's eyes, by the parallels I draw between us.

I feel like I'm looking in a mirror and I'm not sad about it. We'll both be just fine. And then better.

This is a thank you.

First Time for Everything?

Today I sat by the window with the telephone to my ear. On the other side of the line, my father said "I love you". His voice was distant and maybe shy. I said it back, louder, because for the first time, I meant it.

This had never happened before.

Singing, I Don't Exist.

I've been living for days to come, for a smile to fade the scars, for salt wind to wake me up, for a Kerouac night in the woods, for you to come back, for something to write.

I've listened to my four Regina Spektor albums on repeat for the last four days. Nothing else. "A man destined to hang can never drown". Nothing seems like it's meant to be anything lately.

I sound like those mornings I used to cry because the bloody red of the sun rising was the only evidence I could find that life exists.