What’s inside of me I can’t conceive of. I believe in my body but my body believes in me and this me, little that he has to say, cannot conceive of himself. There could be a lot to say or maybe very little. Maybe is the golden word for all this, I may be, and anything we say: may be – though there is no authority to make such decisions, things become and flowers bloom, only because they may be and so often they are.
If some things are realer than others, who can tell one from the other until something blooms or doesn’t or ceases to, or even, out of uncertainty stops itself short and withers as if it must; as if space had to be assigned to it to let it live a little longer. Maybe nature feels a little shame too and pulls back in fear of withering, only to wither mercilessly at its own hands.
Why do some things seem so determined? Do they know more or less than the others? There’s only certainty and uncertainty and besides our own minds something that blooms tirelessly, never sick of itself.
The evening was the smell of greasy Chinese food and spit.
August 25, 2026
est. reading time: 2 minutesThe evening was the smell of greasy Chinese food and spit. A series of continuous beeps kept us alert during the intervals.We tried to get
