i was not made of mud and cannot dream of returning to dust.
when i read something i like now, i feel myself rupturing, all the parts of me leaking dams. my heartbeat skidding into home. this dull ache circling my skull. there's a lot of movement. a lot of feelings shifting around. i'm trying to build something new, not from mud, not from dust. what from? i don't know. i don't know. my arduino kit. all my words will be muffled like my malfunctioning piezo element. i love always the scene of cameron peeling apart the skin of her forearm like the bloodless unzipping of a dress, and all the wires are there, and each has a designated function defined by what it touches. define me by what i touch. i've been chasing a real solidity for twenty-one years and i haven't caught all the way up to it yet.