crawling in the sweet

silence. little air cells stacked and scattered within the grid. i laugh. i smile. i rub at my eyes. these contacts are drying out and my hands are cold. my hands are always cold. until about six in the morning, my feet are cold too. there are ants in the kitchen... invading the cupboards. i keep smashing them with napkins, spraying them with citrus-y chemicals. a trail on the wall... then they spring up around random objects. a tin of steel cut oatmeal. a tightly sealed jar of honey. they appear but they're not actually penetrating anything but the bulby sclera of my frustration. i don't know where they're coming from. i don't understand what they want. i give up, exhale the rust of my attempts and go outside. it's become a crisp fall, seemingly overnight. these buttons on my pea coat aren't equipped for the season ahead in their abused condition... fondled hastily over the past three years. another item to the list. construction. deconstruction. consolidation. for some reason i can't seem to be bothered with the reality of upkeep. i've never been that consistent with correspondence, whether it be the pen pals i had when i was eleven, or the translation of self to items. that space that keeps definition relevant. space keeps growing and i have happened upon a new time where i linger no more. my peripherals bleeding over the edges of the known universe. beyond that... layers registering in some place you walk on clouds to get to. it's true what they say about my heart. it has a murmur... and there are birds flying out of it, indeed. but i am silent, observant. persistent in focusing the lens, pulling the wires in, extending my hands out into the invisible. this makes it difficult to wear gloves. in this case it helps if you're fond of purple hues. or waking up dreaming. and the sweetness follows...