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the
path to
love
is strewn
with cats’ eyes
in the darkness
and with the silence
that spreads all around
like a net of joy
the path to
love
is nocturnal
ON THE MOUNTAINS OF MYOUPOLIS,
Nikos Engonopoulos
I saw a toad being eaten by bugs and then
A black and blue butterfly perfectly still, stuck in a landed position, half its wing torn off,
Dead upon further inspection
E posts pictures of a field with mountains in the background, a high perfectly round sun in sky
I immediately pull Wheat Field with Reaper and Sun by Van Gogh,
Yes
We are all connected 
Trying to figure out right how to squeeze a good last bit of the smashed, wrung pulp of a crushed fruit, flesh-hair on end, in ruin, still moist end of summer.
I take lots of walks and think
I make lists and never look at them again
Sometimes an unforeseen whirlwind day and-night-and-next morning of first meetings, of flirtations, hesitant and then bold, of simple desire  — welcomed precisely because it is unanticipated, breaks the curse.
Oh, I forgot I can feel this way
I’ve been reading White Noise by Delillo — it’s not long and it’s well written, but I find his tone flat in a way I can’t handle for more than a few chapters at a time. In the current place we’re at with AI writing styles modeled to be flat snark and with other, human writers projecting detachment and contempt (packaged as being coolly nonchalant), I just find it crushing and oppressively deflating.
I would like to read a story. I would like to be told a story.
Once K sent me a voice note reading me an old Russian tale because I offhandedly said I wanted to be read to. I wish I still had it. Some expression of care and tenderness lost in some digital purgatory.
Immaterial love?
I want to chase this high of fluid, inky in-betweens, of the beginning of the collision of what could be love, what is grinning and giddy, shiny black eyed and vast, electric and veiled, prettybecauseyoudon’tknow, fun because it’s airy, the flash?
Like looking directly into the sun for a fraction of a second.
I want to hammer that out like a sheet of metal, expand it into oblivion even if I know I can’t.
I guess it always goes back to something else and more
A forgotten word in Lost Illusions:
starveling
This Must Be the Place on shuffle:
I’m just an animal looking for a home 
Some things I know about:
In-betweens
Sleeping very quietly
The end