The radar-ping of the fluorescent tube is a dialect of loneliness, a frequency tuned to the white noise of Ohio, or Illinois, or the specific static of a TV left on after the national anthem. You are there, adjusting the bandana—that cotton dam against the seepage of too much world— counting the beats between the thought and the meta-thought (which is a snake eating its own tail in a footnote at the bottom of a page made of sweat).
Let’s talk about the how of the water: not the surface tension, not the glint, but the way it swallows the fish who doesn’t know it’s wet. You wrote in long-hand, a frantic shorthand for the soul’s exhaustion, breaking the syntax of the Midwest into a thousand et ceteras— a categorical list of things that hurt:
The cruise ship’s smile.
The logic of the tennis serve.
The recursive loop of "I am a person who is thinking about being a person."
The stanza breaks here, not for breath, but for a citation [1]. (1. See the way the horizon line is just a jagged graph of antidepressants.)
There is a terrifying mercy in the detail. The way you parsed the lobster’s scream until it became a question of ethics, or how you turned the "Great Concavity" into a mirror for our own hollowed-out wanting. You were the cartographer of the Interior Lab, mapping the synapses until the ink ran out, or the air became too heavy with the weight of every single thing being absolutely, crushingly, simultaneously true.
The silence now is not a void. It is a "This is Water" kind of quiet. A pause in the middle of a marathon where the athlete realizes the finish line was just a typo in a book that never intended to end.
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