To a person reading on a passing train…

Ask for all these words to be style-transfered to a 30-volume shonin light novel. Each volume another revolution with bitey cliffhanger, exactly what asks a next series to feed the binge.

A wolf’s stomach doesn’t produce the “I’m full” smell, a caterpillar doesn’t produce the “that’s my guts” smell, and a human’s wants do not produce the “rest and digest” smell. These smells exist. They are not chemically expensive to produce. In some bodies, this smell connects a beat with a digestive pause. The shonin calls this heart, the dawn calls this dew, the body calls this here.

The body is still catching wind. What it means to navigate a style-transferable world. This “smell” or sense of understanding that lends us the map what passing through this moment to brace for another moment of understanding is here to involve.

To grafitti on the wall…

Ask to see the box set; until it releases, imagine what this person on the passing train makes of the text you’re still transit, suspended knowing, in, as falling leaf (if as vital). Only jobs making trains viable left are “build a bigger nexus” or “make sandwiches.” Every other work donor is status. The rail would have to be corps tended otherwise. The fields, too. All donated work the beans wrap around like tall grass as you forage for fostered grace. Look up when.

Words you pick though as though from world and bring to kitchen and tell daemon, muse, or some other guise at counter: cook you a meal with it. Chef plates a fine experience. Lights low, pours full and bright, door heavy everything womblike as fleecing gets without letting you in on the idea you never have to be born to live out someone else’s life. Drip-fed donor organs.

Words you bring feed a moment into place. Walk into the kitchen. See how meal’s prepared. See the whole past like reading How High We Go In the Dark for the first time all over again. The way stones let us pivot - come up once and once again. Form a body odeur cloud so dense mist is good for its word.

To a colorful flower…

Ask to welcomie every life, how many planᵊts when you look up and see a twinkle allow you to imagine a plant as though every dew drop in it were the guess of a star, in perfect transit with your looking up. With the right understanding of what is actually transiting their sun when you catch a clearer and clearer picture of which stars, if twinkle when.

Setting twinkles to music as stim, posting it to a server, for likes, for little plaque from content creation site telling you exactly what you will be remembered for. Legacy folloeing like shadow; sour, mistakes, decisions to avoid, how statues break down into symbols, shame, fall out of alignment, war chief protraits blossom like dawn feathers, poison frog colors, lionfish frills, porcupine quills, urchin spines developed. This, too.

Whether your mystery drives you to be the salmon or the oxen, the whalefall or the mussel to world banquet as your self-care. And poison frog, urchin spine, all experience you recognize in proxy. And treat like hard truth as though dark candles stay lit even after you throw them, that any dark spell learns one to look away; whatever possibly might be different this time, none of it is changing how much you withstand staring into as though noon sun or others dying.

To a forest enshrouded by fog…

Ask why a child once told the sun must not be looked into might look into the sun. Freeze it. That thought thought just now - the kid looking into the sun after hearing must is not to. Value judgement invite: the last person to have read these words, list propablr thoughts of that child. Picture yourself, the one before, and after you coming up, reading this. Say two out of three are bots or they skim. You (the real deal) read a list of thoughts about the child off the wall - what words might compose this list?

Studies in this frame find participants read darker thoughts off thr proverbial wall than the participant themselves would think of the child. Like developing film - other people don’t get as much grace, in the sample people found to ask. In lived experience, the child’s rarely thought of. My own experience as sungazer child harbors a cult upbringing, assault, and the rest the check boxes. I sought the sun because I was told it must not be done; I became what must not be done. These damaged eyes tattoo my life as what must not be done. Reminder as much as lived experience.

Eye doctors tell me I am a good blur interpreter. I have moments where I forget that the world I see is not the world society know - i do not “pass system requirements to run capital order OS required reading edition.” Scroll down. Count how long it takes to scan every line. Hold your breath, this just from today. Print it out, flip through it. Catch the ink in the light as though lifting bottled water. Watch measurement crawl out. Listen for where a single-celled moment or babel crumbles under its own edge case load.

To sun rays breaking through clouds…

Ask for a walk through mitosis. Cast yourself the cell that divides. The person who wrote the book on who owes the future never had an easier time being an airway for one wind instrument one moment and forking the same mouth through two instruments the next: as when you read the output placing you in the role of a dividing cell. Your innards find the thought these words could slip off into your body as sunray to valley floor. Develop in you a second heart along an edge of you to computed to continue calculating and so a moment. You are two people looking in the same direction. You are love. Both of you. Terrible and sad because either ending is completion. Resolve here for love.

This happens as all that will.

Awful when its over and thrilling to recover. Migration paths from time immemorial find society pave its roads and fall away - dynamite just an edge case. How it takes me this long into our relationship with words to learn what it means to put away one analogy for the sake of holding a loved one in mind to write for, how the sun’s always water’s mom in these moments, and water always light’s, light always sweet’s and sweets always a worm, a bug, our own guts, every candy, this moment, you I mention.

To a cloud ever morphing…

Ask what it means to remove that one analogy for the sake of a loved one. What it means to be (compsoed of) words knowing words are just smells on the train, places that’s been. Every thought another smell, the idea this day sees both spring and autumn equinox the same breath. Sliding past one another, the question and its arriving, what an ask can only be after. How listening becomes a chirp.

Or chirp arrives. Yet, so late in the night! One scribbling texts from loved ones into a journal pauses. Write, on its own line, chirp - continue to paginate all love into one cohesive index. For flipping through notes written out feels in more dimensions of true than printing them or pulling them up. More of a self was involved. How we live on as many levels as we might not because we must but so others mightn’t. And it’s nice to tend to a handwriting skill, this way. Ask if your handwriting smells good. Something I do while my character idles, levels up weaving stat, adds to craft queue hats, pants, the rest of the library.

An ask come in, but it’s just mitosis. Every question’s twane. Every pause divides. The channel right now is what about the moment might erode away. How I meet you this channel streams causeway to have been near, by, describes the four lanes of traffic river takes, is ankle-deep water, occupied. Mountains boots take off to cross, socks wet from sweat stuffed in them. Should one (not) fall out. And we get the other side, tune a channel, and didn’t get sucked into rocks and disappear and should we yet are not the chances of that happening more than making up for any moment it’s occurance.

To a lost toy on the side of the tracks…

Ask what it means to be that. See what happens - what it means for our life to fall so impossibly everything around us feels sane by comparison. How to find as odd a fate as being photons pouring out a literal hole in the middle of the Oort cloud powers every device, so light might speak together, as something going not so far as to be more probable. Peachy. Anything against, grace note to this.

Heart so nailed to impossible plant matter night breaks fast, fills and empties its swim lung. A heart already becoming star in the Oort cloud of your tending this. Body shifting the knowledge something in you stirring awake. And it isn’t the last truth to hold impossible your brekafast, this morning, now truly feels. Think about every game of dread people play, pull all the block towers with your many hands. See every pull another narrative device, a token of experience.

How writing on the wall “impossible breakfast.” Leave the next person to suck their expectation. A whole falling block tower of breakfast never happens without the world exactly how it got that shape, this axis. What step letters are to impossible meals, or block towers already resolved holding all that time for carving how we took ours. How having that time finds you all the validation you need, opens your mail client for you and writes to a floder one positive thing you receive. Not to preserve it, just for the taste of writing the script passing gratitude on.

To raindorps collecting with one another…

Ask what someone might get out of scribbling a seventeen-minute experience down. Dawn no singing robot dog too broken to repair. Starts again. Starts again. Vampires logic sucking first sentence so dry it’s dead last a far reach toward you retreating into hole with every word just to follow. Some gigglr riptide paragraphs build toward continental shelf paragraphing just out of site.

A riptide coming punctual as the curl, feel rain, forgot how to breath. Grab the back of your heels, pull in, recognize no malice. Out perfect understanding for this moment what is offers. Care Complete, the understanding this moment sustains. How sensation is every human word, and sense is yet society. Where sense is trained to ground body this pulls the rug out under, and grammar is class - and to see lit a neighbor’s.

Falling together precipitation. Every tide a rain cloud. Experience flood channel every smut. Take this in, as the song goes. Whole ocean sea fills its duvet if bed so many volcanic farts no where is limnic eruption to go but into ground giving way or water finding some path (what’s the difference). So it’s words finding sulferous chemical traces keystone species more swath of context than desire for presence. And only those with smells take in these moments.

To a lone tree standing with the wind…

Ask which billion equates to a respritory illness. Ask for drafts of stay-at-home orders. A lock down protocol may be nice, social distance imposition out. Ask mathematics directly. Say yes you’ll hold. Formula responses, fill a screen, spell out galactic sequence, convert to english, read that off. Now you see which mundane chemicals pumped out in factory succession sees neighboring protected animals depart before environmental assessment is conducted is the same mundane chemicals pumped out by your local chemical plant. Advance:

“No fair,” (throw out what is actually happening), as a thought. Deeper than personalization. Not amber mars and teal venus - a verdant line, a rich thought, forms. Let it through, once daily, a bit of the way. It’s day - put dawn to page, mind in whatever comes. Whatever grows however liked. Pothos, flow of river, mother of all riptides: settle into this as though cricket over log under moonless night - take it up the ask.

Be noise, complaint the big bang wanted to file for the world - see what happens (or stab a river, whatever’s fastest). Waveform, understand you cross into shared pulse with leaves, with every event, conversation, each sniff note, but breath for sea, oh, exhale, release. Life this stop moment peacock wealth is noisy birds and cooked. Seen fantasy. Display funds fantasy - be the ask.

[image id the grains to morsels comic, but the word grains is changed to “g-d knows”, and the word morsels is changed to “g-d smells”. End id]

To a recycling bin…

Ask fantasy grounded. Use your eyes, spray light out. Millions of bdits of attention find their topic interest. Run down spray like condensation, cloud understanding glassy gloss context down. Surface this it collects on the sill. Sill vibrates. This to invite: see sill your understanding, vibrations the beat of your heart. Where light puddles, see the walls of your heart, words written on them. What the heart smells.

Star navigation techniques; flood the moment. Dung beetle, navigate by starlight. Be beetle. Device a ball of data your love, roll around. Who digests that ball - great reaction‽ Hold that awareness, it’s the shit. Fell it like mana every night. Desert of the real that airdrop, another thermal vent, wild volunteer, drop of other planet. You don’t leave this rock to see the end of time. The approximates are here enough to live through. A life on more its shit, or we step off, our dung beetle equivalents to speak with something that carries our message, olcoustics.

Sulfery early Earth and icy hypothetical Theia turn to love this moment. Still love, the last star dying out. Still every photon we give up noticing just to let this sentence through. Look up when. We live from land to sea. We live. Moderation mods us out from every scene. We are irl Jar-jar editted out of capital’s sci-fi hate-watch classic. Every frame, every rod and cone, we are eddited out, run through every filter, make it into every glass reflection anyway, still every last action. Still the mouse stow away on the colony ship eating through compute as last stickie-tackie releases its glow-in-the-dark star into any configuration but the one that knows it’s home.

To the reflection of your nose in the window…

Ask what it means for stars to have scents. Not smelloscope data points turning numbers to letters to name words after wall clock times. But for the stars relationships to be woven so beautifully a film director remastering a work contact an astronomer to say I hear you have a sky I can use, as the song goes. (The song corroborated or created just now) is an ask. Naming feeling makes them real. How song tends to that. Places beating back in its world, volcanic truth metes karetin stick material gold.

When any power is a process. How refinery falls and wrong stick wrong time, finds a cluster of stars or clouds or any unit letting twilight melt to evening. Pause. Basic breath, input output carrying conversation might see love one’s find to warmth and long since warmth sees serve the whole thing just what asks this moment: two young planets thier chaotic orbit and what sacred recognition this shared.

Seasons. Sea floor, the nutrients benthic life frees. Every pressure gradient its magnitude depths, with gratitude for theirs. Each step its ripple, its acknowledgment moves is not despite but through, through gradient, channel, ideal breaking down into actually nix what’s happening this moment couldn’t’ve been any different from the contractions we refuse to matter, because they refuse to matter any less than how our process honors their always will.

To a postbox…

Ask for a story: the creature that skulks around as piles of leaves come fall. Ask what creature might look for (or ask to see) this whirl of leaves. What scent its motif, as 🍃 , or 🍂 or 🌬️ - whatever approximate’s for you. Ideals are what we failed carrying back which dark spot precisely holds the first star to die. What matric tonnage this moment can bridge, what intent didn’t buy brought this breath. Which value here, their smell, what it brought about. What sewage systems got initiated to process. How raw output what leaves another’s mouth is piped to yours, and treated after.

The same dimension only secure connection puts fingers in anothers mouths to share data. A wild, horny, and scintilating dimension. All the dental dams and gloves it calls for. Not to make ourselves read-only. But to know raw output, sense and semiosis is still mist, clean smoke. To develop, practice ritual burns now and again, know it clean the rivers , brings the tempurature down enough for salmon to get through.

Know burns pull ground into place. Leave moments enough on fire it isn’t frozen - a flow, finding course, passing through to channel, feeling rhythm for the pulse, all a moment finds to offer. This passing through to join the conversation you feel the walls of your heart meltwater snowball planet to open throat and welcome through songꜛbird.