Something is wrong with me. It's been a strange few days. I can't begin to describe the amount of frustration I feel. I've been trying to use this as a creative outlet. It's not working. I'm taking a break. I'll write again soon.

The echo of image, reminding us that the present is only a millisecond behind now. "I can't be here," Jude said, walking down the stairs, walking as if there was a now to walk away from. She won't leave, not forever. We're always only reflections of one another, and confused in the way solitude confuses the like-minded, the ones who want to believe their alone, and make their lives lonely to achieve the resistance to symbolism, representation, revision (which is only a rewriting, not a re-representing, not a change); we all feel the same emotions, even if we feel them differently. I lost myself again today. In a dream jesus appeared, a portrait of jesus, with one eye cut out and a real one replacing it, like the old film-trope of spies, and that was all: a portrait of jesus with one real eye. The density of the moments, yesterday in Tompkins Square Park, like a tiger-lily fading away, it's all a reaching and a cutting. Like to tear, from the Greek derein: to flog. Yes. Then we move to our own stipulations, and I cut away the sadness from the world, if only for a minute. The strange graveyards in heaven. The condo's on the river Lethe. These are where I walk and think. About war: none of it makes sense, only senseless bodies. I want to reach out to places I have never heard of and tell the people there that there are people here. But then there's spacetime, and the warping of the universe, and the inability to reach just far enough. I reach for you Jude.

A dance is best remembered by the emotion separating the action from the music. I have just seen a three legged dog fall down. I am sitting. I have several desires, none of which can be achieved right now. I would like to speak to Jude, but I am fearful that calling her too often will only lead to irreparable damages. I must tear everything away from the spectrum, the spectral sort of commitment to short-sightedness that gets me into these irrevocable states of consciousness. Eventually the topic will turn back to poetry, it always does. So the slowly decisions come forth: I don't sleep enough, I don't eat enough, I don't go out far enough. We all need those distants to remind us of presence, that the division of space is only a folding and not quite serious enough to cause damage until we allow the distants to be holes. Then that is where we find the necessary courage to fall forward until empty. Jude once told me "the world is full of holes that we must step in to fill the void, to make it appear less severe," only she didn't use those words, she used a poem of which I'm paraphrasing. I think I will turn into a translation if I don't keep close watch, the work may suffer but the mind will still. I wanted to cry when the three legged dog fell down, it looked like it didn't want to get up, just lay there on the corner of Court and Butler, become its own momento mori, just give up. One day I'll recall what I did to make the world dissappear.