For the first time

in uncountable months. I read, or re-read or read for the first or second time some of these entries. And I'm ok. composed and unemotional. The numb is in. in deep. so a book in the near future is probable. future entries even more so.

my finger tips are heavy with words and finger limbs loaded with aprehensious. A book. a print. some text. a little type. meaningless words. those are truth, ink and permanent.

when did i become a poet. what book did you read, what songs did you hear, what website did to watch your life on by scrolling down really fast.

Why did that man on the street have a sandwich with bread and boned fried chicken, and why did he just throw that bone in the street when he cleaned all that chicken, and was i supposed to shake his hand and give him my number?