22

Compelled to write like walking, like grey on gray, an invitation to look at the moon and imagine who else is. What’s the still-falling-apart in the ours of muffled guitar? I stopped writing because I didn’t want to be read, stopped for a moment because I didn’t want to mistake writing for that other thing: packing up a life into a few cardboard boxes, wrapped up for a final leaving, and going off, somehow, still not alone—or not that, just thinking it, writing about it in the same place as ever, same week leading up to charcoal darkening the sky, hot pot, a late night screening from the guy who said young people don’t make experimental films anymore. I was pissed about that. I plugged in headphones for the rush of the ocean or the memory of it. Should have said something among all the drafts and drives to the water, feet first in a slow pour. How to keep going there, those people who can walk that edge with you, can look out from a bedsheet and concrete wall pixelized into speech, can make an ours of that. Careful, we closed it off because of rockslides, deep tunnel into half the movies we never saw but were told to. Reformat. We wrote it again; clicked and clicked; played it back from the beginning.