a quick update. i am turning full circle, about my own axis, into a happiness of sorts.

this is hard to express in words.

like coming into the house from the storm, and realising you have always been alone, and that it's ok, and upon closing the door, hearing no muffled warm rain, no restless pavements. this is what you have wanted. only you here, with a silence rooting itself in your heart, and thrusting its branches outwards. feel it crawling in your throat. that which has become your skin: you have grown beautifully within, peering out the glass of your eyes at a universe made of words; the silence that is a guest in the deepest hour of the night that is black and needs no hospitality but falls into you easily like a wanting body; the silence that comes not from held words, but from words that have already been said, talking that has already been done.

it is that, and more. it is words traced perfectly and then held back, held back to grow inside the head like a plant and then stiffen and die. it is that knowledge that dies within the head and the young green sprouts that unfold from their own dead.. it is that knowledge which is held and only let go when i hold your hand, and when you close your palms it is tucked back into itself like a dying plant. it is that of your dying breath which goes as stealthily as it comes. it is that which lies beneath the soil, that which is stirred only by the muffled rain, trying to let itself in from outside your window.

look at some pictures and the glowing people around you. look at everyone else: look at how easy it is to be beautiful. also look at the broken black sky, torn swift by shadows, also look at the bright nothing cars and at the tired soles of your shoes, the dismal music playing in your head and nothing else within it. look at the sprawling words in front of you, look how they are crawling black plants, reaching continually, continually away from you. look at your hands, writing these words. filthy, tired. they are not fucking yours.