i'm close to the end of drifts. i don't know how it's going to end. i thought it would just drift, but it does end in twelve short pages. drifting pages. in a way i don't want to end. it. everyone wants to reflect on their own life as we drift through others. but she gets pregnant and i drift away, but she's encapsulated in that bubble, that drifting inside, another, intimately unknown, swimming inside. when she became pregnant i drifted, her dream out of nowhere, yet many of the same things she gleaned drifting the same as me, mostly dead writers, who drifted before us and drift within us with our drifting as we read—dreamwork, driftwork, the dream will become solid sometime, you don't know when, you want to keep dreaming, drifting. so i look back at my drifts and see drift objects from the sea, subjective with tide-wear, time drifting appearing on bodies, want to keep drifting, guided though somehow, bird-like, human but more, want to be more than this, a way of thinking more like drifting, on currents, as we occur, not as we thought we would be. what if we were all just drifting.