sometimes i get so jealous. but majoring in lit...is that a pain and an explosive joy i want? or would it cripple me now like it used to, in public basins and foretelling. i wonder.
/
nothing else feels like that. just one things, leaf spines and beads of salt water. it is so perfect, so precise. the way things are there for me to just take in. why else is a red pail amidst an abandoned field of weed silver just there? for what other reason is a white and spotted cat, small, tethered in a corner of the city? such obscurities. so infinite and ideal. and what i get to see. it's random but it's not. i know that i know this.


i always wanted the best teacher. sometimes i was quite lucky.