i will admit that this writing is no good and the bits before were worse. this is the most i can do now: admit again, repeat it once more, spit out that i am worried i have dried. it didn’t take long. first, i could not hear the slow shadows tickling toes. then the language became clunky, the beasts remained unnamed. soon i was adding commas unnecessarily to give me pause, so i could catch my breath. later i was unsure if it was breathe. yet even in these wobbles, i would go back, patch up the sighs and deflations, the collapsing caves and crumbling hills. the universe would stare perplexed. it’d scratch at my fogged window. clean yourself, it’d say. i’d work. stretch yourself more than you can stretch. i’d work. do not focus on the lost lost to the lost. i’d see things not working around: light would fade, dark would fade, i would last till the mourning where you would give me another book, ask me if i read the last, and tell me that this is exactly the problem. you never go deep enough, kacper. use your fingers more often. dig. dive. stretch into my admittance and into my best.