in i no speak.
you have heard nothing from me in a year and a half i suppose. perhaps longer.
my life has been indecipherable, miscalculated, contrived and impossible. perhaps the modern world is only one i come to through a lens of diffraction, a million discreet moments placing themselves down upon a bed of lavender calliope, and floundering in missives and collapse. do not recall that i have made a million mistakes of you all, the ones in the place i most needed to be while i ran away headlong in a frantic reactive flail.
do please know that i do not intend to misinform you, for in this i intend to counterclaim, and here- the passion and concern do come to bear—i fear i cannot collect myself enough to share. and there a clutching grip is placed upon a muscle placed just so, and lingering over a hard gap waiting to see the pink underbelly of a living flesh.
perhaps i am not.