I think I [kind… of]
fell of the faceof the earth
and diedforawhile.
static distortions and tryingto
think. blackand white, noise, coming in small gaps with large
eyes and mouths.
try to [understand this phrase] that’s complicated
to get back up and try again.

drunken menagerie, fixating on smaller details and dragging out boxes of forgotten words and letters, written down in flaking ink, whose colour is so long forgotton. blue, I think, is the colour of the sky, which pushed through my pen.
it’s odd thinking about rocking chairs and knitting needles, glasses of lemonade sitting on the floor with books on the table to the left.
trying to write with a left hand, unsucceeded, out-done by the right.

a very quite place, indeed.