04.May.2001

will

--

something about reciprocation?

The human itself demands change, somewhere beneath the sinew and wires of veins flowing the blood, to the cerebrum. I require change, but it is minimal.

Distance.

This song brings upon distance.

And fog-guided evenings racing down the main highway to Duluth, Minnesota.

So down, that I kept my head pressed against the passenger-side window, so cold, that I opened this window, and breathed in the harsh reality of distance.

So insular, that I recoiled into my wires and pressed myself against the glass.

There is something stirring inside of me that only I will understand.

It is not defined by a he or a she. It is just defined in my veins.

My novel is long-overdue.

It is 7 years fucking old.

It is being written now, through my fingers as I type, through the cigarettes that I breathe. And it wants no one to understand, it just wants someone to listen.

When I touch you.

When

We are only human. We are only ephemeral.

My sore throat.

Your shaking hands.

--

time & machine