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I’m thinking of notes on a staff, and music, of the chicken or the egg.
It’s hard to imagine, here in this millionth subplot, where I am going.
The scene now is restful:  dim lights, a sleeping dog.  My idea of restful.  And resting in it, all my potential.
No one is more eager, no one is more aware of their eagerness.
It is as if I want to have love and success and loss and death just now, slip slowly into the scene, and watch with good kid intentions.
I almost know it too, all of it, and yet my body is so inexperienced in the bigger things, nearly all of it remains unplayed.
The mind knows, or thinks it knows an experience, the body has to go through the experience.
The proof is in all my kicked out lovers, whose whole lives I had for a moment, then I saw their mismatched bodies.
The concrete power plays of recognition, turned into tiny symbol, housebound symbol.
Ten million unfollowed leads, unfollowed up on, timelapsed, endfrayed.
From all of this heavy cloudwork a midnight lesson:
I am so hungry for images, and now, turning towards matter, I learn to rest in both.

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