my chest crushes in on itself. something in there knocks randomly, it hurts, and I forget that I forgot (on purpose) those stupid pills. another reason to go back, maybe. no.no.no.no.no. they won’t find any(no)thing wrong. yes, I can read the words on the screen, yes, I can hear the voice on the other end of the [life]line, yes, yes, yes. but none of it adds up, not even close, to the way two souls speak or sing or smother each other. maybe my soul, maybe my breath, my blood my bones/fingers/eyelashes/scent/thirst… maybe one of those holds the strange language that can explain this. explain any-all-things.

//noise bores me now. lights have grown dimmer and colors not as vivid (thinks of synonym)-brilliant. the great ability of synonyms is, that no matter how many times you find a new word, it never reaches that potential that you had in mind. never. and in no time I’m disgusted with the idea of everythingforever. I want nothing. I want to rid myself of anti-things, no-things. because what does nothing represent? just a word, to describe everything. the absence of everything. but if it is absent, here and now, then it must always be somewhere else, there and then. it must always be in existence, so how how how can it be nothing?

I’m forgetting, forgetting too many things now.

I wish that no one goes through anything like this. I wish that they find the conclusion some other way, there must be some other way. it shouldn’t happen like this, they (eye) say. but it does, it will, there are always others who know, who will know soon, who will know in the far future.

maybe my bones/fingers/eyelashes/scent/thirst language communicates with them, those who know, maybe with those who don’t, maybe that’s why it’s happening like this.

humor dances on the edge of diningroomkitchen tables and I wish it to slip, fall, stumble, off. I can’t find any other reason for family after family to sit and watch while such things are delighted in. the sound of forks against plates and knifes and over-under-cooked meat, soups, salads. silence that hangs, wet like bath towels and empty-dry-gutters, silence that has no place within lovers’ lips, but finds its way there without fail or falter.

the silence that hums; inbetween sighs and touches, glances of skin, and between breaths. should we take comfort, of all things, in these letters, words, phrases, the thousands of other languages across the world, should we take comfort in those? or in just one, maybe millions, that not a single human [being] can understand, that we use everydayminutesecond, but never ever realize until it’s too late, just late enough. or do we pretend that it doesn’t matter that whole languages exist, that constantly swirl through time towards, away, within us all? what do you (we) do?

[time compression]

I wonder if the symptoms can come too early, without warning, like a wall, the edge, the end of the earth, when the edge was reality. [synonym-truth?] no. not good enough yet.