this place is temporary. people disappear all the time. people don't care about people here. it's a land of make believe. people are made to believe they're free here. they live a long time or a little while and disappear.

in a class in college a writing instructor told me what i wrote seemed to have no person or particular place. that struck me and i was embarrassed. that stuck with me.

i finished a slim book, remote control, about a girl who finds a seed and glows green and has the power to kill she can't control. i guess she's being remote controlled. she destroys a drone that's watching her and later buries the seed under a tree where it found her and maybe she has learned her power and her control. she stays there and she leaves.

i finished frog/pond/splash about ray johnson by his friend willie wilson. the word viscous is written about ray several times. references to water, surfaces and depths. then he drowns himself. depth.

i go for another piddle in the night. viscous. what does it mean.

2:50 a.m. 2.14.2021. i'm here. i watched the sun go down and then the moon and i'm under a lamp reading a new book, floating in a most peculiar way. 

it feels to me like humans are lost. and they disappear. i'm only human. it would be interesting to know when i heard that first. 

in the temporary forever.

we can't control the government, it doesn't represent our need, we need to let it go.

i read about ironing hair, i remember ironing my hair. 

if we say it doesn't matter what we do as we sometimes do it means it matters, even if it doesn't matter, even when we don't say it.