As of late, I consume a lot of meals through the lilt of liquid, making my sentiments rather acai-driven or sorbet-slung. I’m a Mid-bestern, a North-a-rare-a-can, & a forehead-smiting socialite. Sometimes I operate through a slaughterhouse of slurs, or an abatement of commercial liability, better known as the front door douser. I translate text instantly—if incorrectly—& fall in low-percentage love with pathology. The curve of my human experience is often a little left, over in the woods. I voluntarily avoid closed windows but if forced can hear the sounds behind them. I believe that if you leave enough books unshelved they will be read & understood inasmuch as they should not be shelved. Recently I’ve felt like the red trunk of Georgia O’Keefe’s Lawrence Tree. I’m an advocate for car conversations that get so intense the car doesn’t move but all the things around it, like scared little swallows, scatter away from intent to form content. A screaming always comes across the sky. A woman’s dressing gown is often self-satisfied to the point of remaining unworn, Steven’s “complacency of the peignoir.” Perhaps even the evening as Eliot’s patient etherized; that’s the grim tenacity, the slim but trimmed vivacity. I don’t wear hats well & thus own four that have been walloped by years of lint and idle attitudes. When the library wants its books back does it ever consider that you might not be done with them? My camera has operated on black & white only for just over two years now, aside from when I did not notice I was picking color in. Sometimes color needs to be put in.