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ENTRY 4: April 22. 2025	I lay on the couch listening to the spoon stirring against the glass, my roommate is making her medication, not because of me but also not without me, she reminds me of the years I spent pressing into strange walls/people, I am now here. There was so much sadness in my past life, I would try and be good for B and M but I was not my real self, I was walking behind what I wanted. We built different lives across the Earth and now know each other, a day with B we went to the Rose Gardens is now spent with her, I turned in the street and the corner of the sidewalk lay beneath a wide spot in the sky. Behind me, where I would soon go, was the crescent moon and constellations of stars, people moved in the street like evening wildlife, turned orange and shuffling, I saw rats in the city too, no one looked at me. I watched a bus pass by and saw the people lit inside, they stood or sat with a blank face, waiting, holding the metal pole and looking out, the night was cradling all our feeling, Some days end, one long day followed me and ended years later at your feet, intimacy is a note I cannot understand, it usually doesn't come from touch, I created intimacy with the grains of sand on the beach, and where did they go off to, after? I made intimacy within the rhythms of your voice, often when you said the same word again and I let it stay there in the middle of the air without touch, We locked ourselves in a glass room and you turned away from me and played the piano, there is the question of what I did, if I daydreamed, or shifted in the chair. I kissed you on the bench outside the psychiatric clinic, in my favorite building which stood across a woman looked down at us, she watched and did not move as I bent towards you, someone who by now I know well but within the body there is a lot, left, most of all, the sensation I created in my own, the air was still and no one came down the path, the woman watching only looked past us and over the hillside.
ENTRY 3: April 17. 2025	Just remember, Mom and I love you and miss corresponding with you. We think about you all the time. Do you remember the night the fox came into the house? The night something crawled towards us on the floor, a red animal which moved on the carpet beneath the yellow light, do you remember it's matted fur and the way it moved? Do you remember the glass bottle on the counter? How it appeared some nights and looked as natural as though it had always been there, could you touch it? Could any of us touch it? I've always been a better writer than you, it must have been scary, when I was so slow to talk. I wrote a letter to you I never gave you, then I never spoke to you again, not really. Everything I had to say was in that letter, but I never said it. I've always seen more than you, even as a child I felt what was wrong, daydreamed often of picking up the bottle from the counter, but you could have actually poured it out, and you didn't. It was me who stayed awake, while you, my father, pretended to be asleep. Even now, you pretend. You pretend to be a man, to be tough and masculine and capable, but I have seen what's below, the nights you left me to be the man of the house. It is ironic that you think I'll never be your son, when really you won't be my father again. You have no idea who I am, the nights I became myself you were cowering in the bedroom. pretending, nothing was wrong even now, reading this, you'd say, that's just growing up But then why are you still looking to me to fix things?
ENTRY 2: April 16. 2025	Spilled Milk Factory I walked to A's house last night when the weather began to turn and dark clouds came in, it was still warm and I looked at the flowers in the trees, magnolias, I thought about what they might be doing. A parallel world, meeting them again in a dark bar, they bring someone who stands at their side and looks just like me, acts just like me, says the things I say, he's also a cowboy, he says he loves them, on the street far away I watch the tall black structure forcasting April rain, almost twisting in the wind, The photo you took could be titled I don't know what is going to happen this day could be titled April near and far, my greif comes like clouds, always the question is when will it get bad again? I was pleased when my cards showed trouble on the horizon, many fives, a scattered life is better than composure some times, far away, I called them and spoke about everything, I was laughing and telling them about the people I met, they listened and noticed the birds, said it sounded like I was calling from heaven.
ENTRY 1: It's April I'm Tired of March	*what ends* at the road I took the building above the railway was old, one yellow window like silver tape under setting one yellow window reflecting I'd drawn one small window for myself are you afraid of it ending? the way I turn back at some point on the sidewalk when it ends only birds are flying in new ways I saw them make a new letter writing your name comfortably. I saw spring come in my dream no reason to be afraid of winter now I made a new cup of coffee that day one yellow window reflected the face faded from the concrete and I stopped thinking of such things, when you and I brought balloons to the park and they sometimes blew away I wasn't worried and only waited to have the urge to walk on waited to see another yellow window reflecting, this time I lay comfortably movement of shadows and leaves only natural until no one could take the walking away.