On a night like this,

I'm missing Italy.

Oh, to be 20 and sitting in a blinding darkness. Like in a womb, a velvety black nest of somnolence and smoke. Me, perched on a balcony at twilight, lips dyed red from wine, like I was hurting. Like this was an open wound. I read to myself, sometimes out loud. We ate popcorn in bed. By we I mean me. I relearnt my name a hundred times that summer.

I miss sitting in the darkness in Italy.

Oh my loves,

Hasn't it been a dreadfully long time since I've been here? 

I am so so sorry but I was quite set on leaving this space I felt I outgrew — but but you bloom where you are planted as they say, and how do I explain this warm burgeoning glow in my chest when I decided to log in today and ended up reading some of the beautiful messages some of you dropped me all the while back? Which then led me to some old things I wrote — poetry, prose — and it is like I never left.

So thank you for still checking in — call it writer's vanity but whilst I haven't been writing, I will be, and whilst I haven't been writing, I thought you should know I am here, and I see you. x

If I do drown in the wade pool, then so be it

These days have mostly been a whiff of fresh air, calm and sweet-smelling. I have found my elderflower, vanilla love- the old, silly, laughter-filled kind of love, the kind you can only share with someone you feel like you've known all your life. Another day, in another space, I will write about this love and the boy I share it with.

Today I am still not up to it. No love is perfect, and I'm now just hoping for one that is enough. One that leaves no wanting, no questioning, one that leaves in excess and doesn't leave at all. Today I am still not up to it. My fingers are too heavy and there is still spite on my tongue, apprehensive but daring you to kiss it; some days flames lick my corneas and all at once, my ears are ringing cheeks are damp. In the mirror, I do not recognise myself. Or I recognise myself but don't like what I see. This is how you made me, I think to myself. At least this is how you left me to heal in the wake of your decisions, no letter of apology, no flowers by the door. You know I love you, you say. I wonder to myself if this is love enough. 

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Nash equilibrium

The spoiler here is that we don’t make it. 

Don’t get me wrong.  

In one of the infinite versions of us, we do.
I imagine a large room filled with steel drawers that never stop reeling when you tug them open. There will be a steel drawer for every two people in the world, every possible combination.

In each drawer, just files.
Files describing in detail each and every version of us. The Us who never meet, the Us who will always be just friends, the Us who hate each other with a deathly passion. One file where we are siblings. One where you are wonder pig and I am turkey. 

One where we are enough for each other. We will love so fiercely it will be scary.
There we make it. Just not here.

This is the washed out beta v. 26.2.
The Jack of all versions but we know Jack will never make it to Oscar's. In this version, we are good friends and better lovers. You love me but not enough, and I am only brave enough to love you as much as you love me. Our tragedy is distance, the Milky Way. 

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precondition for an Olympian

Today, gods discover their mortality through death,

having outlived and outloved man.

A gunshot rings shrill in the temple

air, and space has never been so vacuous as when

The temple is vacant. You exist,

figment, if and only if

I exist, exhale, exalt

Thee who only knows life,

which only means to die

when I.



Thought experiment

If you stare at the floor long enough, it detaches like film on rotisserie chicken but with a m=0 straightness as y goes from nothing to an arbitrary positive number. It then folds somewhere past your knees and with you in it, crisp, like fresh paper. Once, and then again, and a fifth time. If it folds a sixth time, this is reality and also a Rick and Morty reference. It is really 4.16P.M., the trees are really bare, the biting frost now means more sheets tonight. But if it doesn't,

I will never know. Which means, fall might not have come and the last time I read a book was yesterday, which means you might not yet have left. 

Which means never letting the floor fold six times. Schrodinger rules that you have both left and not left, and if the floor folds six times I made you leave. 

So I never let the floor fold six times. 

To be safe, I blink really hard once it hits the fourth. It is hard to gauge how long each fold takes, and some things you cannot afford to chance. 

The floor unfolds like your pocket square and restores at ground level. Voids, as voids are, resume boundless expanse. Mine is limited by this floor, a reminder of how low I have fallen.

Above me, cats suspend mid-air, apostrophes pregnant.



Summer is here, rearing it's majestic gold mane of foreign waters and rose-tinted glass promises.

Finally there is sleeping in, and finally there is reading of things that do not bore me. Finally there is the last shake of the semester's sieve, to see which souls are meant for keeping and which souls have crossed mine with an elegance that will continue to leave me in awe or lockjaw, but will leave left.

My days have been brunch-filled, gilted edge dreams. My nails are finally done the way I should hope, and often I find myself lost in some new material thing, attending something beautifully lined with art and books and bodies that pulse similarly, I should think, less one-twelfth of the next person's heartbeat.

I have my coffee with milk now, as if to say it is okay if the colors of this summer are muted. My harsh, swirling long blacks will never make it to the pantone charts, they say. #000000 is the explanation of a nothingness that everyone acknowledges but cannot make space for. So I am happy to report I am now a meek, weak murk, a new age color chart addition. I am happy to report I have never experienced a greater degree of roleplay, despite eight yesteryears of theatre. I am happy to report I am a believable thematic vehicle, even almost to myself. Maybe one day I'll be no parts coffee and all parts milk. If only

there wasn't this restlessness, this anxiety. The same that leaves all my wine bottles or paper coasters with no labels or missing a side. If only there wasn't this deep emptiness pitted at the base of my stomach, which has shrunk significantly from this same emptiness. How large is the quantity of nothingness that takes a space it personally deducts per unit of existence? I haven't eaten food the same way since. If only there was a way to ignore this nagging blaseness of a socially viable, bumbling warmness from kindness that knows no better, a way that doesn't reduce me to a lesser version of myself, reduced through involuntary salt extractions- through ducts- inconsolable and helpless. If only I was duller, with no need to understand things that have yet to reveal themselves, no penchant for men hungry for life, no art, no beauty, no wildeyed meta backforth only to collapse into ourselves laughing and lovely, no steady frame of reason. If only a convention-bound, superstition-conditioned but somehow innocent and wholesome love could sustain my throbbing temples, a love that is not mine,

the age of innocence and julieta

at the end of the day, it is the end of the day. all the the meaning I’ve been meaning to ascribe to the day-tasks don’t last the night. They flake away and my mind fills. They begin only pretty thoughts of laughter echoing off river banks, breath taken in and given out, breath shared, taken in, given out, taken in given out. Here, one of us takes too much and gives too little and it’s okay there is still enough air. Greed kicks in and now one of us only takes and the other one only gives and then taking from the other is no longer enough. There is not enough air. Taking from the other is not enough. There must be other feather beings. the other one is

giving up. There are other feather beings, and they titter at all the jokes but have nothing witty to return. it is a lot like masturbating now, you think, and figuratively masturbating is something that placates, for now, this is what you need. You even feel powerful, because all the meaning you created, singlehandedly, no pun intended.

One dies. Tonight I believe it to be the woman.

I have taken to reading again. the age of innocence. just on chapter 9 but already I am Ellen Ollenska, and for now I do not desire Newland Archer. sometimes olde literature instills in us a sense of dependence in a stronger frame, erect, with all the get-out-of-jail-free cards they desire, all the get-out-of-jail-free cards we have to swallow, in the same temporal dimension where women still have to deal with recurring nightmares of colonial rape.

i wonder why that is.

i finally caught julieta. i believe it was in spanish, which i understood marginally due to the etymological similarities some spanish words share with italian. do they all stem from latin? I forget. my main takeaway tires me, the takeaway being women were created to suffer. the female lead sleeps with the male lead who is married to a woman who has been in a coma for 5 years. the wife dies and they get married, have a child. The male lead dies almost immediately after his (second) wife- the female lead- finds out he’s cheating on her with a mutual friend. Well, I hope death brings greater hell than life to the woman with an extra rib. The female lead’s father cheats on his dying wife with, again, a mutual friend. he appeals to the female lead to be generous and sympathetic, a man has needs. i’m so sick of this rhetoric. speaking of needs, we all have needs. but what you mean are desires. and if we were all to succumb to desire and forget promises, morals, ideals, and hurt people that we probably care about or love? is this what it means to be human, is keeping true to the above not a need, and one that far surpasses carnal desires?

Are all these plebeian sins as poetic as they are painted to seem? then I guess the glass is cracked, and poetry and art and love, I think I have lost interest in.