I Would Love To Travel

It Was Sad And Fierce All At Once, Alive With A Lonely Purity.

My Fingers Curl Through The Holes In The Wicker, Through The Wet Grass Beneath It, Trying To Hold Tight To The Sharp Blades Of The Present. Somewhere In My Brain A Sinkhole Is Bubbling Over, And Each Bubble Contains A Scene From A Tiny Sunken World ... I Have Never Been The Prophet Of My Own Past Before. It Makes Me Wonder How The Healthy Dreamers Can Bear To Sleep At All, If Sleep Means That You Have To Peer Into That Sinkhole By Yourself. ... I Had Almost Forgotten This Occipital Sorrow, The Way You Are So Alone With The Things You See In Dreams.

I Swim With All My Strength. No Superhuman Surge, Or Pony Heroics; It's Just Me At My Most Desperate.

It's Funny, For A Long Time I Would Go Watermelon-red And Deny That I Was A Magical Realist. It Felt Imprecise To Me, A Misrepresentation.

Growing Up, Catholic Church Really Was Such An Incubator For My Imagination, Because All Of Those Mysteries Felt Embedded In This Insanely Green, Tropical Landscape: The Ocean Nearby, The Giant Banyan Trees. It All Felt Part Of One Seamless Mystery To Me.