Tonight I’m craving the kerchunk of a rewind button and the ritual of scotch-taping the edge of a cassette
They say you never see a cheetah stretch, but maybe I should. My legs always hurt.
Rode the subway home in an empty car except for me and an old woman wearing a t-shirt that said, “Love is so gangster.”
These medieval Catholics were haunted men who desperately wrestled with the question of a soul, not like the playful Greeks who made up the world as they went along.
And what is my intuition telling me? My first thought is to turn down the volume on the world so I can hear.
There’s a strange dynamic to this nightly journal, this sensation of writing against time. Or more precisely: writing for myself in the future.
Nobody died from the pandemic in New York City the other day.
Ten years later, I still remember the sight of a young couple marching along an empty desert road in Nevada.
In this case, it was the half-remembered image of a woman grinning as she plunged into a shallow industrial canal.
There’s something oddly soothing about the sound of traffic peeling down wet streets on a rainy night.
Maybe it’s an ancestral memory of bearing witness through the night while tending to the flames.
You can almost taste it, that bright metallic sensation which floods the brain when it decides there will be no sleep tonight.
