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.