12:42

I have been awake for hours and I feel as if the day is almost done and in many ways the life outside of myself agrees with me, as the sky is a perfect and soft and reflecting off of the leaves gray. There are times that I see the color of blood in everything, mutated to greens, purples, and yellows; blood is subjective, ageless. I feel it in my thin wrists shining blue through the skin, branching up into my palms where the lines are supposed to reveal my future but I only smell the perfume from this morning and see my grandmother over fifty years ago before my birth--which was an accident--with her small wrists that were not yet ruined by gases filling her lungs that I am sure carried memories...what happens to what our cells remember when the organs are removed from our bodies?

The new novel is moving slowly and I have not found that rhythm that coincides with the genuine of my work and I feel that I am creating a structure that is not for myself, but the demotic idea of literature, which pours rubbing alcohol onto the human brain (and perhaps those of other creatures, because interconnection begins with how we view our environments through the filter of our personalities, which is just an encompassing word for the genetics of emotion). We need new books full of insanity. I want to create words that stick with the reader and drive them mad because only through the lenses of fear and anxiety are you able to see the disease in the marrow of your bones, rattling in your body like rosary beads.



I hear the lonely echo in the cavities of my skeleton while I walk and the sound reminds me of an empty hospital hallway. I sometimes do not remember that I am made of flesh because I am not sure if I am human -- my father speaks to apple trees while I silently rub my fingers along microchips, writing pages for satellites.



I like insects and love letters written by sane-less women in the 18th century because they are microcosms of a different universe than the one I experience now with my inebriated eyelashes and numb fingerprints. I am obsessed with anatomy because I have bruised molars and as a child I watched a man play a man speaking to the skull of a man he knew as a boy, his words written in 1600 on a different continent by someone that also had eye sockets and pupils. 



I had once believed that reality was the hallucination of my diseased brain but I now understand that life is true because I could have never imagined the fractals of trees.



We decided to trade bodies, talking over phones that were made by slaves. We agreed to share fat and muscle, lose fertility, but I think that we should keep our hands, as they are coded with the mechanics of our neural signals, maps that can be used to identify our numbers.




I do not light candles at Mass because of the normality of prayer, but only because I have fingernails and that are clear and thick; I touch the useless statues because they are made out of the elements of earth that hold the bloody-blue salt-water where organisms pop out of the surface like ideas. The earth is turned inside out and we sit on the beach laughing, listening to the sounds of the waves, which is only the rush of fluid through veins.