Whenever I write N, the words spread out into filigree enclaves, spaces I don’t normally touch, more comprehensive in their reaching than anything I consciously sit to write. I usually text her while walking, or inbetween doings. I recently have come closer to understanding a short attention span. When you can’t focus, you are lost in what surrounds thought, always lost around the labyrinth rather than within it. I don’t care to get lost in something constructed for such an experience, but rather all digressions questioning the fact and matter, bathing in the writing written over and over as dirt paths, for no one in particular. I am thinking of texting her while writing this, keeping that as a subconcious focal point. I am supposed to be typing out many numbers right now. Many numbers around me. I listen to music incessantly. I can’t keep my mind off of the world sound so easily creates within me. A wedding at The Arts Club, with all of it’s Picasso’s and Picabia’s. A labyrinth of snow waiting outside. -8 F when I move to my new house, with the radiator shaped like a canopy around my bed, where an ex lover used to live hours prior.

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