mmm

This is a half-empty morning, and even the cold is inadequate. There are a few sudden pangs of warmth invading the air around me. This is a fading memory of many years, spent with my feet inside warm blankets and my head heavy with sad dreams. Spiral journals, which were my spiraling journeys.

There was ground below me, which keeps slipping away now. It vanishes even when I sleep. And when it is gone, I take a walk on the moon. The moon that is made of my cheese, and the one where gravity barely exists. So that when you jump, you never return to the surface. No downward spirals, no crash landings.

When they say "your heart is in the right place", what place are they talking about? I have so many imaginary places, and like my moon made of cheese, they all have craters. Those can be filled by time but not space. Don't question this, because you'll go back to yesterday, if you do. And given the right crevice, you might land at right now. Which is the hardest to imagine.

If you dismiss the way the cold creeps into your heart, filling it with blood, you have never felt anything. To feel is also a function of time, and then we realize that space is often fiction. You cannot move through it freely, hence it does not exist. Even if it did, it couldn't course through your veins the way past moments and half-seconds do. Maybe because of the weight.

There is always this fascination around, of water filling your lungs and pushing the air out. Vacuum is unacceptable, so a river must take its place. Fishing is not allowed, and please do not dump your waste into it. The nets that we used to clean it with have too many holes. Because of the sudden writer's cramps.

Like this one, suddenly holding my fingers. Which is why I have to stop now.