August 26th 12:43

A starved dog's gnaw, grinding below the ribs. Exposing the innards, revealing obscured emotions. What is the source of rage? Lack of sleep, neglect, inconsistency, power dynamics both real and perceived, excessive pressure. But enough of that bitter note, that one grey key.
I hate this so far. Start again:
Boo baw bey. Mo ma mey. (warming the jowels of the mouth) Oooo aaaa eeee. Loosening the strained muscles of the text, massaging the words out. Feel the tension flowing out of the page, leaving widening space, a true home of an alphabet in a flux of infinite combinations.
Industriousness, building upon quiet. Shuddering on lightning (get it right, get it right), the door, the wall, the ceiling, left right up down, positioning, fitting, structure (and putting myself within it, tying myself down with cord, hair, memories thinking). I am motionless, with a glint in the eye. I swing the object, I change the atmosphere. The beach, any beach, dawn, dusk, waking, tricks/trickery, a growl, a battle, a shout. Everything is in play, the roulette wheel (Les jeux sont fait!) . A reflection, a reminder, production, a dance in the dark, alone, touching the cold lightbulbs, turning the faucets on and off all night--breathing from the tap. With the grim studiousness of death, seeking, gnawing, scratching, digging, finding at last a bottom, the slip of the bathtub, the fear under the water, the slap of waves, a delicate pastry.

Throw this down the well.
Never retrieve it.