A place to hang my 8-bit Fez.

I have a space here, amidst the dazzling chaos of informed consumption and uninformed consumption, in the eye of my energetic hurricane, next to the pile of apples and rubber bands, between all things and no-things, a quiet imaginary corner, at the head of a table of black-and-white opposing figures, among the mirror-holding teachers I am so quick to vilify, circling a fluffy cloud of “I can make this good”, the center of a soap box, the universe, and everything, a collection of twinkling typeface and half-eaten asides, my “self”, the universe, the universe, the universe

It often comes back to feeling “good enough” … good enough for whom? Does this last or, like all else, predictably ebb and flow with the breath of the earth? Does the changing tide represent the deliberate pace of planetary respiration? The song of a struck gong, vibrating in my soul, the sound of Joy? Of Grief? AUM?

…Joseph? Is that you?

Jordan? Dina? Dee? Dyan?

Ryan?

Is there anyone, or is it all just me? Does it even matter?