J: Dear S, This is a conversation that demands attention. My brain can’t face inward within the sound of the dancing of the lights. -J
And you wrote this against the movement in the wood grooves of your father’s desk, I imagine. Imagine the specks remain of the bits of cotton bulbs you picked as a kid on the side of the road, having spent all day thinking of different ways to build a paper airplane.
So, to respond, I bring my own lights into your hands. Orb-babies that speak to me through hours of crying. A surprise, shocked back out of the body by nature.
Between rocking on my knees and Bach, the brain can’t face inward. Not even the body has weight anymore.
I imagine different ways to build a paper airplane, as though I was 7 years old in a field, as though the body seems weightless within the glistening of crops and cantering wind. The carbonation of the brain, facing nature’s glow, swings me back and forth between reality and time, bent back on itself, layered as a cake in the mind.
Yes, yes, no sleep but stars stuck on sleep’s ceiling, and so you wrote me, and so I respond.
And the brain takes me to fields and nature. Though I stand far from some county road, nature lifts me there, through her ghost-body.