I’ve built a very small home. Looking out from where I’m standing… I don’t see much on the horizon. My shoulders and knees are bruised, my neck bent at a painful angle. When I get home I evaporate. I try to look at myself in the mirror. A friend asks: “I saw you post all of those tweets. Are you alright?” I say, “I was scraping something off.” When I board the train I decide to read the book again. I get most of the way through the first chapter before tears start coming on.

A book as a technology of the self. A mood to write out of: when you feel as if you have to pull yourself out of the water. “I was reaching so far down, scrambling to get my hands under his arms.” The lyric is a technology—it allows us to distinguish ourselves from the outside world. Perhaps I shouldn’t say allows.

If I have been avoiding anything it is anything that could aggressively consitute an expression of my own interiority. They say he was never the same.

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