Thank you for stopping when you felt comfortable. I’m getting used to it. Tired. Stopping. It feels good to see so many entries be open about how tired they are. How they make what they made, wanting themselves more then making do.
You express so much and sound tired. I feel I step into a rest areas side curation on an asteroid. I have flown too long too drowsy. It’s like you’re in this corner and uninstall and duck unconsciously under a salmon cctv monitor and see me. You dictate the first curated wall “at left” before I can get “oh I was just…”.
Where I’ve forgotten I thought to of excused myself, wrong hatch, my dimension has wibbled. Guns and passion swap definitions if clothes. Throat muscles crunch words I store there turned silicone or I swallow. Something made of me supplies water. To enter the day we’ve made, I turn, leaving. I stop at the survey box. I stop when I’m tired.