i dream about bad things happening and wake relieved. there was a big storm last night that cleared before morning. i went around in half sleep closing windows. i dreamed i left my dear blue bike under a cement cloverleaf and when i went back it was replaced by a red fogey cruiser with tassles on the handlebars. boy i was bereft. my blue bike was leaning waiting for me in the hall. i often feel silly, yet serious and maudlin on the outside, i feel i am simply not smart enough to be what i imagine i might be. it's haunting. yet i think the important thing is to be who i am. and i know, but i don't know, who that is. in a way i'm the only one i know, and in a way i'm a stranger to me. that's the haunting thing maybe. i'm a recorder of memory, anxious about what is coming on, what is coming into me. i try to keep my record but it's inevitably a reduction, or an exaggeration, of what occurs to me, of what happens to me, in contrast to what i started out being, i thought as a child, and what i imagined i would be. what i thought is past, it orbits around and around and around, and my eyes are spinning in my head, watching the show of dead planets, forgotten memories.
i don't know why i wrote this. this is a semblance of what i intended to say. words are the ghosts of feelings. words are translations of muteness. 

postscript. not that i dreamed it, but it would be no surprise, a mass shooting happened last night on cornell ave a block from mister's.