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* lack of sleep makes you edgy, twice more over that streaming torrent of coffee sailing you through the days like a ship folded out of scribbled paper. deep night then, and you sit at the desk mixing down old hip hop tunes in the attempt of folding 'em out of time and space: screwing & chopping to those in the know, hazy torrid torpor to all of the rest. nighthawkishly crouched over faders and eq's simulacra, the spectre of dawn just two clock turns ahead.

* did Pindarus ever wrote anything re idiots hailing triumph? last month saw you having two releases out in the world & a short story published too; and yet it won't scratch that itch: every afternoon a sled sliding into fire, what's left of the day a struggle to get as happy as you may in the best way you can.

* lack of sleep makes you edgy but no, edgy is not the word, try unquenchable: there is no itch to scratch, just the oracular anticipating of the fastest means for an animal to move on foot. and during isolated oasis of the week you both run away as if hell itself was tailing you, get naked in the woods untethered, howling at the wind for the sake of getting lost in the huge wash of wails.

* so we begin and return again. a bunch of decades from now the surf would break and throw up a tape holding the voices of a couple chatting re the ruins of an empire or another backed by the sound of the surf itself, captured ages earlier. it would spring in a rubber ball bouncing, hitting you at this very moment, x years in the past. united after collision, suddenly disclosed: a matter of flow. and little else.

* like an empty truck, stuck at an intersection, a driver nowhere to be seen. and if we never meet in this lifetime, let me feel the lack;

& the last time we went there it was all about impromptu, unexpected healing, a bridge getting cleansed and mnemonic modules reintegrated into daily scenarios;

everywhere apparently filled up to the brink with strange surprises;