There is a drift in me—left behind by tides, never named on any map. A memory: watching the horizon split in three, before knowing numbers or the names of the dead. Today, language is my vessel, and I’ll let it founder in the surf. Here’s a diary entry with the spine torn out, after a night where I dreamed I could not drown, no matter how heavy my thoughts. If you need a lifeboat, look for a question mark that forgot what it was asking. Islands in the Static: Life, Death, At Sea A day recorded as a glitch. I wake, or maybe I don’t. The sun skips, starts again, forgets to finish. I pour coffee into a cup that isn’t there. The cup is a memory, or a promise, or a hole in the table. The table is a raft, drifting. I am not sure if I am living, dead, or simply at sea. The static on the radio is louder than the news. The news is always about someone else, but the static is mine. Once, I noticed a nei...
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