is it the sad water of yesterday or the lack of it in today’s hydration that has me hung over the curl of a question mark in reverse, telling myself i’ll go on because i must, because i have been doing it this well this whole time. but i pause. what does it mean to pause? i think to myself i sound like zizek. who is zizek? i sound like him more. i spit. what waters are those, beside the kind that pull towards your moon?
it was night then. there were no clouds. and i remember zizek wrote about you once, but it was on the napkin of tomorrow’s drink.