Early Bologna transferred from dotty notebook.

      If I scrawl, cramped and haphazard, in this pittance of a notebook, it means less pressure, as if the paper relieves stress, (lavender) as if the paper weighs less. A man stands on a step-stool shouting to a surrounding crowd. I know not what they say, it must bare repeating at loud volumes. It is a joke or politics, a political joke. Maybe truth is in the eye of the beholder (always the triviality), the beauty, the meaning. The expression. Free espresso. Prego e Grazie. Ciao in coming and going (for we do both at once and always). Respect for elders and strangers. But, you know and hold family closer with words, friends, coworkers. And sparkling water to cleanse your palate for this. The hard and soft ones you tongue without thought. I speak in my sleep. I dream of my co-inhabitants (co-inhabitance) I am secret-less and vulnerable. Mostly, I am certainly found out. What a curse and a gift from my subconsciousness. I let it bleed, unhindered into this night, blackened further by my red secrets.

      I spill my thoughts to surrounding strangers and friends made different only through language and tense, only different relations through paradigm. My paradigm shifts, not enough to include strangers in my coven of those held dearly to my breast, my naked throat. Sometimes wide enough to let them hurt me, what intentions strangers act upon. Those who inflict hurt quickly revert backward to stranger from known, for they must be close enough to touch a nerve. They become strange--hurt shocks as cold water, swift intake of breath. I don't want to know anyone, I've known hurt that immediately reverts back to stranger. I learn hurt anew each time, sucking it inward, drawing it close and shocked by renewed knowledge of unknown again substance.

    I lay back on the floor contemplating today and yesterday. I long for quick stillness, quickly paced, feeling days slip past me like water into mist. Time unfilled creeps unbearably, filled shoots. Perspective shapes comprehension of time, the feeling of space. My space rushes, liquid. I yearn to grasp it tight in clenched fist, but only obscure the lasting. I open my palm to show air and moist vestiges of that churning river. I may only step in it once, path carves deeper by the moment. I don't mind feeding the earth, but want to choke on laughter and asphyxiate movement during few elongated silences. Inhaling still moments with such ferocity quickens my heartbeat and draws time faster closer. I am again toddler, refusing to close drooping-low eyelids for fear of missing out, too tired to stay awake for tomorrow. Now is so important. Exercise judgement and let joy fill me slowly but completely. I sink deep, bathing in rich moments, intoxicated by the warmth of my liquid surroundings. I drown in it at quiet peace.