Yearning Is The Body In Gaseous Form

I'm fine, thanks. Sleep, wake, sleep then coffee. A caterpillar toddled up and down the blanket all night, footfall like whispered lauds, looking for somewhere to worship. The wall was cold. Jeremiah had a nightmare but fell asleep again describing it. It's always earlier than I think, and the wind high in the trees reminds me of autumn, roller coasters, the mouths of caves in which old men sit cross-legged, dreaming of tigers.

We ate ice cream in the car while driving east. Driving west, an difficult conversation proved simpler than expected. As always, when pointed north, my heart began pacing like a priest who fears the confessional. Yearning is the body in gaseous form rising over obstacles to point, to perceive - because it is incapable of independently following - a straight line to a desired end.

The third paragraph suggests focus, the possibility of cracking in a good way a traditionally resilient surface. If there is going to be a backlash, it's going to be here. Strange, but last night I dreamed of cold milk sloshing in a tall narrow glass as if held on a train (after reading yesterday (but where) that milk is the closest thing to nature's perfect food (I would have guessed apples)). Yet I was repulsed and stumbled away, unsatisfied but unwilling to compromise.

"I need my angst - it keeps me sharp - on the edge - where I gotta be." Buddy Holly figures into this - what the twenty sentences aim to bound - but how exactly. He's like the small town in the distance you're scared will be closed down for the night when you finally get there. I had meant to write about hats today - in particular doffing them, how that relates to certain ideas about sky gods, the male ones anyway - but it's too late.

Or is it? Every time I count backwards to twenty - thinking it's over, thinking I've arrived - I end up shy.