There is now nothing not to do.

I am twenty-one. At twenty-two I will escape Manhattan to examine myself in San Francisco. After no time, I will have packed my material life and begun hanging myself on vacant walls. Knowing no one will only make me conscious of writing this self. I cannot laugh aloud and alone; such monologue will darken spirit, as well as any brilliance. The opportunity to not be recognized for who I am will cause me to feel most alone, redundant, insignificant, unapproachable, misled, extinct. When asked about lifting my roots, all I can consider or rather care for is the chance to clean up my act. I am twenty-one and have never breathed anything through the nose. My luxury is carelessly scrambling beneath bed sheets and carefully cooing meaning from silence, selflessness. She, a sloth. This does not bother me nor place me in particularly high hopes. I look for concentration, not an honest hand to be held. That is the alibi; my way out. I am twenty-one and as far as now have only wished for the simple and demanded outspokenness. More travels into the girth of these legs than out of my mouth. And when I should have clung I cried, convulsed. I am twenty-one and aging, forgetting what is behind can propel forth to matter as well. I am either too stubborn or determined to protect myself. In other news, I have fallen in love.

I had spoken softly, I have said so aloud.
written in flight: aspen to manhattan