I wanted to write as soon as I woke, to say something as I have no one to speak to, only living fur to put my hands against and long, useless hours of work. I have ridiculous words that are like stones in my palm and I have to be up before our star because I wanted to tell my lover that I had a dream about them, or that their spirit was with me in every image, sticking its fingerprints into my brain. I watched horror movies before I slept, but my mind was still my mind and it was left with its rolling trees stuck in the dirt, completely untouched. I am sometimes unsure if it is mine as those trees are too large for my age and I almost know that I have a home in the forest given to me by much older women.
I have believed that god's subconscious was a landscape in Russia. I have wanted tea sweetened with cherries and vodka out of a freezer during a snowstorm. I like cherries because they are interesting things that leave marks behind, like injured bodies.
It does not matter because I still woke telling myself to gather strength for life. I love winter because it has bold moments of beauty and imagination in its vacancy and the mind does better in the dark, where in sleep it has the animal's full attention. Good minds wants more than the audience of limbs.
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