Thank everyone who calls out your faults, your anger, your impatience, your egotism; do this consciously, voluntarily.
– Jean Toomer, poet and novelist (1894-1967)

It’s quiet in here. The neighbor’s bumpinthumpin children have drifted off to presumably, hopefully, untroubled slumber. I can hear the clocks ticking, and the spinning of the hard drive in its case. Maybe that’s the fan.

I am a fan of a poetic that looks into mirrors at an angle, seeking the structures of bone but also furniture, a bit of the window’s hungry horizon. Sometimes, a fleeting wisp of ghost.