Dreamed of a need to move on, move away, move out and up and in and out out out. There was too much stuff. I kept finding one long-forgotten closet or storage cabinet after another, one more suite of boxes stuffed with critical documentation of a moment spent observing, an hour spent wasting, a waste spent comprising unquantifiable expanses of time. All of it had to be saved. Not a skip of paper, not a quill of absence could be removed.
But where would it go? Where does it go? In the process of this it turned out I had bad feelings toward my sister, which has never been true. She would not let me use her bus to haul stuff. It was an ugly situation improved only when I removed my corrective lenses and saw the true colors, the true textures of this moment in civilization. I wanted to taste the pavement of Broadway and smear the tar of John Street across all the bodies I’ve fantasized about, the bodies I’ve known.
It’s true about the corrective lenses. I take them off and colors seem natural, more real than through the filter of the spectacles. I’ve never had glasses where this was not the case. They always flatten and sterilize color. Suck the life out of it.
Just some morning rambles. People are now talking all around me and it is distracting. Nice, lighthearted perfunctory chatter.
