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faced, spastic-handed peacock that lived on a tiny island in the Paci#c ocean with little to no water because they both are mythos. I was looking for a story with animals who had human intelligence, but who were not capable of human emotion. And in the evening I start writing to myself about a book in the drawer: there are two chapters already, a prelude, a prologue. I put them in the cupboard: one in the front drawer and one on the shelf near the sink in the attic, where it will be cold, where I will never see my own re(ection, a book not mine. But there is something to be said for the comfort I have felt while eating a bowl of fruit & vegetables that is not only less than what I had consumed earlier, it is a different feeling to be full yet always hungry. A hunger I have never experienced before rises within.
There is a moment in every day that I can savor the last bit. Like that time before I was born — 🀆the sun came up, the earth began to grow, all the living things in the valley changed into trees; but then again, the bear has been a bit too strong; she is in a bed, a blanket draped over her, her skin a rotted mess of blue and white. Then the bears are asleep. I sit there, breathing in the smell of smoke, the smell of smoke, in front of the bears, I open the window, throw the popcorn over the pile of garbage, I close the window. When I look up I see the bears asleep next to me— you can't help but wonder if you are living within some sort of perpetual state of the dead as they drift through time. The cat has gone in the middle of the night, the sky is black, the moon is red, there's wind in the trees. They say the stars are a symbol of wisdom and understanding. I ask the moon if she knows anything like that. It has not seen my eyes this morning. I wake. The house is lighted now. It took me ages, maybe a hundred years, to #nd it. I do not have time to sleep. I am a thing to be seen & heard. I am not at ease — I am in a daze. I have no name to the things I am, for I am the dead. To have done or say, to be heard again, I must go, I must live: I am a thing born again, I am an inhabitant of labor; endless currency. This is the story of the moon I have lost, and of the star to which it now serves.⎃A wide thumb (icking endless shit in lieu of gold peels the skin from an onion and feeds its family well enough. A white star, full of deadness. The sun was coming, a warm and golden breath from above us. We had been drifting in this silence in silence for so many months that I almost wanted some kind of noise to come out. But I knew that no noise of mine would be worth much, and the sounds emanating from us meant nothing except for the fact that they were the sounds I had been hearing for so long. We were no more, and our silence was but a long-suffering whisper between our two dead. We were both dead.I am the moon I was born into, and you are the dead. I had found only a small pocket of daylight, but it was enough to