the moment I realized I could
write a novel was back in 2013
when it was one on one care-work
with a paranoid schizophrenic, and
every evening after the days events
had crowded on past, I would sit at
the counter chatting conspiracy theories
and literature elitist literati with coworker
churning out 3 to 5 pages on the mornings
notable events (threats of suicide, talk of
ghosts, diamond planet, cigarettes) and
after a month and a half I would have an
entire books-worth of meta-material (not
prosed and honed, be it) sitting in archival
binder, locked and clocked inside a cupboards
future reference.

SO

why not my trickling thought-*seas?