An abundance of beauty, and of connections to be drawn.
One ambitious thought agitating for recognition. Make something of me!
Stubbornness, and a love of lists.
Loitering in coffeeshops and eavesdropping.
Long walks, keen observation, fresh air like blood rushing to the brain.
The smell of notebook.
Dark rooms, beds, things that suggest it’s time to sleep.
Phantoms asking to be memorized.
Like I presume to know what makes a writer write?
Sometimes not-so-discreet narcissism, it seems.
Being isolated, being pierced, having a pit in your stomach. A love of lists within lists, it seems.
Daring to grasp a phantom, denting it, loving it.
Loving the dead squirrel on the path home, too. Step over it now, flee with a moan back to the living.