Day 253. I’d rather grope my way through this world than follow a false god around.

Day 262. I write poetry in the sand with a fingertip. I love, I love, my love, I love.

Day 261. You take my hands and press them between yours. I like you better natural, baby.

257. Sadness wells up to my throat.

Day 259. Every story is a story of rejection.

258. I remember learning language through the lips, tongue, and teeth.

Day 256. The sky may be starless, and it is still beautiful.

Day 255. Perhaps this is why I get up to greet the light and write to you, Simone; by nightfall, I am too distorted.

Day 254. The bats don't visit during the daytime, Simone. They never have.

Day 254. Is it me, quietly refusing to move into the next phase?

Day 253. She slept under the blink-blink-blink of light and when she woke up, she was covered in dew.

Day 252. Come, I will teach you how to play, said the woman.

Day 251. What is it we are looking for when we seek outside of ourselves?

Day 250. Fajr prayer, or the Eurasian Nightjar, lure me from the cold classroom to the bed.

Day 249. I want someone to stick.

Day 247. rechercher, we seek what we have yet to understand.

Day 246.