tonight is probably deep and lengthly and stretches far lengthwise depthwise, a giant sheet hanging in the air extending further. In any loft or one-bedroom apartment could be the makings of a novel.

43 years ago aram saroyan types a word, not even paratactic, just before leaving his hollow obelisk to slip through tunnels beneath the surface. what? 24 years ago hakim bey sits in an apartment somewhere in new york, writing. 20 years later some kid picks it up, knows nothing but the sweet sound of words rippling off his tongue. now I look back in retrospect and understand it within a background of cheesy americana 90s 00s pay-it-forward tantra-and-mysticism mentality, but it still works for me, still toggles the right organ stops, the roof opens up, I see the side of a brick building sloping down and sideways trapezoidal perspectival, etc. etc.

clearly obvious but operating nonetheless.

from the top of roofs the sky is always lower, denser, weightier, about to come crashing down. from the top of roofs distances always change, zoom in and out, the precarious knowledge of a self against a sky above a structure, monolithic presence slumbering underneath here this place here at midnight, 1am, 2am.