Québec
1 October 2002 (11:59 pm) Astoria, Queens

“too much,” he would titter if he could more than, “chirp.”  i rub my head thankfully on his.  he seems to bend his beak in Flightsmile, but that is a silly mine illusion.  his little heads jerks friendly and inquisitive.

“chirp, churp.”

exhale the past.

my landlord is asleep, two floors up.  but there’s no way of proving that.  i don’t know where my today went.  Flight woke me but from a few steps the Morning door, and then a later afternoon bleating into a lowercase night.

yes, caselower.  so far only my Morning makes it personal.  perhapses on Afternoon or Night, but neither so far that i’m aware.  they could be unconscious friendlies, wanting to recognized be.  it still amazes that out of all those drops of unknown my Morning stood out surfaced.  what’s more distinguishable

but that’s only my human grasp of inliquifinity.  after all the unconscious is measurable.  like stars.

i loose my grip after five briefs of one, two, three, four.  they’re stars.  what do they want from me?  i got a good mindeye, but christ, “One, two, three, four-  Shit.  Did I count that one already?”

i can’t get out of Draco and Littledipper is giving me minor Ursals.  what can i count of the celestial, outer or inner?  i crunch down on the egg pastshells, tipping toe to try and get the stars right.  at least more than five.  i need a toe bone in my nose to smell where i step.

down here, there’s the bright shiny chaos beautiful.  yes.  the score Henry.  but not a song.  one must sing sometimes i agree, even if it is only words and no sound.  so no Afternoon or Night.  okay.  Morning is the best place to start anyway.

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