4:19pm. There are birds. Chirping, I mean.

My vision is blurry. I don’t know why. Need new glasses. Make this font larger. Aging.

Warm outside. Cold inside. Both literally and metaphorically.

Why temperature differential? Iced coffee with cream. Poor blood circulation. Physical fatigue. Cold shower after swim. 57 minutes. Wanted 60. But backstroke backstroke gotta keep it light. I already have a fast burn out rate.

Love is such an interesting word. Christopher Ryan wrote a book called Sex At Dawn which essentially argues that monogamy is a joke. I think he should pause.

Yes love starts super sparkly. Sex spitfire sssttttts like a sparkler. Then normalization occurs, inevitably. Then friction, fracture, falsity flares, flops and flails, fickle fight.

Then then then then then, you’re driving with the windows down on a sunny Sunday at a traffic light turning left, waiting for oncoming traffic and you’re squinting in the sun and your head is still and you feel that after the fight a part of you is less of a fucking self-centered prick and you feel that you and your mate have been fused by the day in and day out of experience and while it’s not compressed and contrived like a Netflix film or a goddamn Pinterest pastiche, it’s….what’s the word…..what’s the word that means up and down, ugly honest but honest, raw and rah rah rah but redeemed (in the end), because when else would it be redeemed? all these things these qualifiers that love doesn’t account for in it’s neatness but if we can scrap strip away the rules and regulations of talking feeling thinking about these things like punctuation we can come away with a sense of what it’s like to be swallowed by the feeling that you’re part of something that’s bigger and better than you even if you can’t define or delineate or draw it on a piece of paper like the shrinks always seem to ask you to do.

4:27. There are birds. Still chirping.


Warm outside. Cold inside. But warmer than before, having written this I mean.