I want perennial infinites in
finished sentences. An understanding
of some certainty. But promises
promise only the opposite.
The ends of thoughts tell me
to only trust the unuttered
letters and not what it lends
to voice because
human touch only destroys
and dissolves, like snow
on your skin. The one thing I
am perennially missing.

I cannot escape death. I mean that in the most literal sense, but also in the most metaphorical.

I keep thinking about writing. I keep thinking about what has been written. I keep thinking and sieving and choosing, nitpicking and weighing. What are the thoughts I want to see the ends of? What are the words I want to be accountable for when I am gone? How do I want to be remembered?

In writing I always seek death.

and that is precisely why sometimes nothing.comes.