I flew again from your arms, from the home we have made for ourselves. On a train with green curtains and orange windows I am moving forward with this idea: Each morning I will be a stranger, wherever I am. My life will stay strange, evidence of incoherent movements, a trail coiling inwards but never reaching a center. Overlapping and colliding, future rewrites of a sense of home, a frivolous fulfillment that hates itself for standing still.

Why is there nothing in the window or mirror looking back at me? Why this emptiness of space is limited to my gazing there. Why the need to abstract the concrete in order to make it real? How to escape a train of thought if not by inverting inertia and allowing all matter to pass through ourselves, become a substrate of space-time, become decentered, move ever more unconscious.

I feel like doing so.