Notes on work.


Cloak beautifully sleep, make the hours pass into bright air. Writing is productive loneliness.
Reaching into two divided ethers, a divided mind, a divided soul, all the past and all the present, infinitely close but never touching, two plates spinning.
All that is that is not, all that is waiting to be and being held back from becoming—
the large dark cause of my neurotic not feeling well.
Just around dusk as I let my mind relax, broken phrases, furtive, unpastured, start assembling down by the cracked leaf-stained bandshell

The world is a writing surface and there are not enough erasers.