goodnight.

what moves me tonight? a right kind of haze. landscape rendered immovable, static image, emulsion showing through the corner of the eye around lampposts, points of light.

I take comfort in the solace of places designed to stay open all night, lights on, operation late. these tables and chairs know night, morning, early dusk, noon, weight, absence. they don't sleep. these lights don't sleep. there's always a human kerchang to the register, a welcome imperfection to the way things are handled. cracks in the moulding, food-dirt eternal underneath the floorboards.

---

maybe one of the most frightening things about large-scale events is when the layer of individual action crosses with the public, sublimed into unity, an alarm creating a collective. turned heads in unison, the same emotion, heart-sink, a desire for grounding, connection, familiarity, forgiveness. where do you call home when the buildings are burning? a tornado arrives, the storm gets louder. small events bombarded by the world is what, I think, we become used to; sisyphean struggles against monstrous impartialities. when the opposite happens, perhaps, it's a trembling disbelief in sagan's indifferent universe, or at least an indifferent multitude, the plural embodying the singular for a moment. Is This Shared?

this dread of implicit collaboration, shared-ness (not from some rabid idea of the unconscious desire for individuality) but rather a vacuum felt when relying upon non-me things, non-my, non-us.

ormaybeinfactperhaps, fright for this all-me synchronization from refusing individuality? joyous apprehension in front of the mothership.

a truck slammed down on broadway today sliding and veering-out screeches and for an instant I saw a whole deli-full of necks turn twist stretch, stare out and comprehend briefly the sequence of sounds, a slow process, a brief pause on an agenda. everyone snapping their heads back at conflux for a brief mike feedback screech. what is this fright, when everybody is reaching for the phone? everybody's moving the same way. unconscious footsteps. an intelligent multitude turning silent, mute, devoid of emergent properties from an instant.

if I'm full of shit at least it's mine.

---

I realized I have these dreams during sleep sometimes, of sliding out and slipping, twisting in mid-air, the view of a horizon sliding up, everything in blur (shutter angle's wide), the sense of geeforces acting on my cochlea, the tip down, sensations of acceleration on my skin, the tipping down, the rising ground -- and the usual corresponding sequence of questions. is this really yes it is okay here it comes stay calm shine quiet smile. meeting the ground at a certain point is not dread or fear it's a silent apathy for convergence; and I always wake before impact.

to take note: this isn't desire, nor is it temptation. sensation recorded and presented.

---

it's raining again. I spent too much time expounding, exhaling.

listening to my bloody valentine again is memory in creation, a layering of terms, appropriately palimpsestic.