La rutina diaria
Normalcy, normalcy, repetition.
The subjective semantics of home.
Sift through relative importance. I’m just confused, okay. Trying to grasp time but it’s slipping through my fingers like grains of sea-scented sand.
In other news, it’s snowing in Ithaca
Sometimes the immediacy of moments are removed. Sometimes things are masked through crackling static (noise?) decibels of not-quite-sure.
(Seconds/minutes/hours) defined through gazes (eyes?) Coloured glass with fragments of soul (meets body?). Odd quietude in stalls and tiles of linoleum and Platform 9 3/4-esque brick, tissues and tissues and porcelain.
This is the visceral. This is the not-quite. Stenographer of almost-poems, all too honest in all the wrong ways.