turn your fingers into the night. pull.

hook the long, stringy hairs of all your darkest thoughts through each other, try to make something like a scarf, or a carpet, or something that might have some use.

look at the matted thing you hold in your hands; discard it. 

consider all the things around you that you consider “yours” or perhaps “you” [mine, me]; imagine how fragile the boundary that keeps each thing from being any other thing. 

notice the arbitrary way in which I have called some pieces of dirt “my body,” and others “my words,” and also how I have claimed some others as not-of-myself, as of the world, in some way that implied that I was not another collection of scraps in what that world contained.

this is a language of convenience. 

I disintegrate into all neighboring surfaces. 

My mouth, my hands, my cunt, my thoughts–these are are all also small black beetles, shafts of light, a muddied rock, a patch of night sky.

here, do not cry, not because you are not sad, but because you are all things, because you are no things. forget all the languages the world taught you with its racking pains. speak only softly into the night, with sounds the night understands.