This bed is a ship is a sporadically updated internet journal, a home for odd scraps of writing.
the apples I bought today.
things feel very surreal lately, the passing of time, god, was that only a week ago? has it already been two years? eight?—the picking apart of the true, the good, the real, from the dreamt, the imposed, the constructed. I walk through the door to a courtyard and enter a bedroom. I reach for the curtain of a theater’s exit and find myself at home. Days are nights and truths are lies. A stranger turns to me and says yes, I think you’re the one for the job. There is always work to be done, not merely the flushing of my mind through my eyes and through my bleeding nose. Readying for take-off: the acceptance of death. Finally, finally, my life begins its striding, true to nature.