is the internet acting weird, or is it just my pooter? i know i have a glut of images spread out all over the place and i start to hyperventilate when i face the work of clearing, just like with my studio apartment i sort of abandoned like a time capsule somebody should live in. r. is cooking lentil soup and whistling to hare chanting and it drifts in here where i'm thinking about clutter and virtual clutter. there's clutter that's invisible too—thought clutter. chanting may help. whistling may help. i recall be upset when doris whistled all the time rather than talk, but i was silent, prompting her to whistle, not to annoy me, but nervously. i've done some things that i'm heartily ashamed of. things i would say but let's not talk about that now, as r. and i do laughingly when we start in about the sick fuck trump or obomba. i should be succinct i'm sorry but i don't know what to say, see in person right now i'm silent, but of course we're not in person are we? you are right. so right. but is it my pooter, or the internet? if i could sweep my desk clutter onto the floor with a flourish with my arms, but it's virtual, and i'm realizing the virtual too needs work. and then i think of my studio apartment again, and i need a nap.
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