is it all just a series of days?
is it all just a collection of moments, disparate and broken as fuck, packed in to one week or one month or one year? am i entirely without congruity? am i entirely without plan? i rack up sentences, one after the other... pages are filled. every now and then, i look back. every now and then, my own life concerns me. i mean in a deeper way then the usual self-absorption and apathy. i rack up the stitches, one after the other, and a sweater is made. or a blanket. and it feels somehow like a world has been created. but only for an evening. only for as long as it takes for me to return to apathy and the fear that maybe it really is just a series of events, a series of exchanges, disparate and broken as fuck.