There is one thing usually occupying brain space, an undercurrent, always running fire through & quietly; it’s stories. Telling them, making them up as the world spins along, gathering them, reaping their benefits, suffering their shortcomings, coalescing them into something tangible, willing them away, changing how much space characters take, connecting the dots you’ve been dropping into shapes. When I think about stories I think about people, about breaths taken vs. given, and how much can be done/undone. Sometimes my life feels like fizzing, pop rocks meeting water suspended just above all my skin, as if the atmosphere herself was enough to feed me & hungry is a state I’m always in. I’ve been playing with recursive practices, finding beginnings and endings to be the same & therefore not worth gathering to dates, to reminders, to places where I start and finish because I won’t until I am and then I will have been but I’ve already gone. I’m still deciding if I want to be gone. If I ever left. If there’s a reason I repeat words like breath and themes like death, memento me mori, I want to lay eyes on foreign corners & familiar curves, to calculate the exact smash of a wave, to feel that dizzy pull of open space along tall edges, to collect scratches down my back because another theme is that ultimate blend, breath lead to deaths, small & over & over & over again. And maybe my fizzing is an exoskeleton; give it to me world, my own special blend of sensation; I’ll return an iteration of letters strung out in succession. I’m trying to lengthen, to shift all the weight to new places, I’m okay with the graces of cushion if only I could change the orientation, but not my own, I will always own that, proudly proudly waving & pushing & concentrating & I wanted to be done but remember what I said before so this might live again as a poem or might already be one & later I will excavate her a scrap at a time, longing for context stolen by slipped time.