in tell them i'm sorry for conflating my thoughts with their silence, i try to listen to their thoughts and observe and learn, but i'm obtuse and i may have a headcold or a brain tumor, and i fall into my daydream again, and  hope they are bemused or immune or like the sound like rain on a roof when you're cozy inside.

silence can't help being affected by these sounds.

i finished that h.norman memoir unsatisfied or dis. it started out cool when he was young and hanging with the inuits and a beautiful older mysterious girl bird painter, but the it devolves as life sometimes does into the queasy indeterminacy of age and even with a murder-suicide lost my keen attention, and maybe that was the braveness of it, it didn't try to shape living into a life.

i thought, sometimes writer's just want to read themselves thinking, they're lonely and they want company, preferably a plurality, and sometimes i feel like we're just writer and reader, two puppets on a string.