Between the eggs cracking over the pan and entering as an omelette into my mouth, I wrote:

I hold inside myself’s body All that has been sensed. Past and Present reside inside this eternal home. Inside pushing outwards. Skin screams in one long stretch. Scars result and I exist silently. The weight of Space presses its back against myself’s body. In all directions it tries to penetrate. Contact is an attempt to stifle the safety of my senses—to disrupt the shelter of their home. I will resist Space’s entry. I will remain wedged between two mounting pressures, larger than I—the Senses’ push and the Space’s press—for as long as I can hold.




I feel reborn, as if I woke anew. There is much to write, but it is probably best told in increments. Soon.