Sometimes I find my own coldness & cruelty a bit much, but the plain fact is, people who choose to fuck about with poets get exactly what they deserve, the only justice in this world poetic through & through.

This morning, it's just me, the dog, hot coffee & all the pretty figures, all over the walls, all over the pale sunlight trickling through the windows, everything something it's not, other than itself, inside itself, other.

There's nothing abstract about abstract things considered in their abstraction, more solid than most, cozy cold comfort.

Pottering about my secret temple, forming forms, bibbity bobbity boo. Ooh, baby ghost, scary, friendly.

Should really shower, walk dog, crash down to the real world, keep on crashing through. Comfy in my pod, watching the pretty blinking lights.