The question is, who are you fooling, if you really want to fall asleep?

As if sleep were a performance for God.

The instructions on a sleep mask say, you still need to close your eyes.

I wish the pink light of sunrise lasted longer, the warm pink of in-between.

One way to fall asleep is to say Don’t think over and over to yourself.

The instructions say, try to practice it mindlessly.

In sleep, sleep becomes an everlasting interlude, an eternal in-between.

I read that staring into space “can help”—but can’t remember what it helps with, thinking or not thinking.

Not thinking is the closest we can get to stopping time.

All I know of time is in my mind; my mind is all I know.

Only fifteen minutes ago, I had no idea it was going to snow.

And yesterday, and yesterday, what did we believe?

It’s so easy to forget, as if it were a dream.

The future wasn’t obvious.

And the old snow on mountains that never would melt—it didn’t look real.

Certain Conditions

These are the days of moth and iris.

Under gates and eaves, the moths hang like bats, invisible in shadow.

They all flutter out, hundreds of moths, at the slightest movement.

They are harmless to me, and yet it is difficult not to scream.

A woman tries to run a man over in the street by the Capitol.

She even turns the car around, on a one-way street.

Even without this, I am experiencing a crisis.

I am experiencing a crisis, even without respect to a telic midpoint.

It’s become unhelpful to think in terms of years.

But in theory it’s pain, not death, I’m afraid of.

My friend recommends I confront my emotions with RAIN:

Recognize, accept, interrogate, nurture.

She says fear and excitement are somehow the same.

I think of an old military acronym, VUCA: volatile, uncertain, complex, and ambiguous.

It is so redundant as to be extravagant.

My friend’s doctor tells her: eight drinks a week is the limit.

We have a good laugh. Should we live for a future?

Should we live to fight for life, when we hate our own lives?

I think getting what you want is just backwards desire.

And the undoing hurts.

Moon News

I read that in January of 1912, “the moon came closer to the Earth than at any time in the previous 1,400 years.”

High tides make the sea extra iceberg-y; ergo, the moon sunk the Titanic.

When you turn your concentration to one thing, you turn your distraction to something else. Distraction as dark side of the moon.

Every photo of the moon from the moon looks black and white, because the moon is black and white.

I resent all this news about the moon. I only love the moon when it takes me by surprise.