“I was never really insane except upon occasions when my heart was touched.”— Edgar Allan Poe
currently reading: Lord of the Flies by William Golding
Practice doubt. Practice kindness.
Plant moonflowers in your own darkness.
Eat bitter roots. Be a student of dirt,
of TV static, in-between places,
motorway hard shoulders and crossroads
soaked in gloaming. Gather what falls,
will what does not; befriend nightmares
and fell things, staunch your wounds
with sphagnum moss. Love the knots in your hair
and your flushed thighs, love the black
pit of the fruit or eye of the flower, love the
liminal, the ambivalent, the circular—
love the thing your flesh surrounds;
breathing, furious, night-dappled,
moon addled: ask the endless question
to hear the limitless reply.