there are no normal days for me. The only consistent thing is that there is a pen in my pocket which i use to write on scraps I find while standing in the doorway of my kitchen or the train or in the taxi. which gives me away with my English script as a foreigner even if I was passing a minute before.
I wake up at 3 and than I wake up at 4 and then I wake up at 5 in the morning listening to the sound of someone singing in my room. I open my eyes and look around expecting to always see a form to the things I hear flooded in but it’s just the shadows from the moon coming through the bars of my windows and into the deep cup that is my house. When I sit up finally the cat sits up with me since he doesn’t like to sleep alone and will try to track my sleeping patterns or lack of them when there is too much to stay awake for.
we both need some poetry and i am just beginning to get it back