piecemeal
raze your dreams are broken toilet seats, piled on top of you. the thing is, they're not dreams, but more of a waking separation from who & what you are. you disguise your voice on the phone. of all people, some random salesperson senses that the voice isn't truly yours.

instead of making use of a possible railing, we hold hands & descend the stairs in a brisk kind of sliding. which is fine, until i lose my footing & we fall behind.

she's crying & telling me something important, but i don't understand.

for some reason, it's the people i don't think about that keep reappearing. you'd think there'd be more emphasis on the present.

it never makes sense, but there's always at least one common thread: the lack of intimacy. when it is there, it's fuzzed-out, seen more than it's felt. almost like i'm never quite a part of whatever it is i'm in the middle of. terminally disconnected, but subtly so.

swimming pools
unwashed skin
broken connections
dinner with strangers

none of it seems to mean anything. there's the illusion of a payoff or a development that makes some amount of sense, but then it swerves into something completely unrelated.

maybe the thing to do is just trying to capture the sound of it. dirty nails, cold hands & emotions without justification.
031124
...
raze plastic stitches that won't dissolve
one anonymous torso
but i recognize the car
031126
...
raze you open your mouth
& a butterfly comes out
you don't plan it
it just happens
031214
what's it to you?
who go
blather
from