Help help. I have nothing to say.

Experiments of Oct. 27:

I don't go looking for her because she finds me first, always. A familiar shade; a shadow. Umbra, in Latin: ghost. Isn't it interesting to feel a lack of home. Isn't it interesting how rapidly we feign permanence. Staking claims on human beings and tagging phrases with forever.

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Somnia with the arc of cut out cardboard tool you can't taste the sweet until everything cools - I suppose the mellowing of time shirks from responsibility here; and to blame myself for the garbage overflowing the streets - the stench of shit - feels as futile as it is. I can't curb the billowing - the great expanse of language - the thirst for nonsense information that purports to lift but drops you in the same place. These objects shrink at the sound of their names; these entities are just too gigantic for me. To the yawn of the universe we are all blindfolded and boisterous. You will dissipate before you realize she found you before you knew who she was.

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Oh and against these
checkered structures the radiation
of light amasses.
Held down quantitatively we
are not.
On the floor lay a drifting
tapeworm - the king of
my meddling chess set.
On whose side do you remain?
Simultaneity - somewhere this
happened all at once and we
are playing it out so slowly.
Retreat
from words; stuck -
sanguine, anemic, riddled
with flesh.

I have nothing to say and all of this is preparation for when necessity outweighs self-indulgence.