Keep seeing dead birds. I don’t know why they are dying or why they are dying where I can see them. I wandered up to a twisty dead blackbird early this morning. It can’t have been there for long because as I got close I could hear another blackbird making a frightful noise. I can’t know if it was a lover or a rival, but it was enough to cause an important racket.
I am confused by these birds, all wrong on the floor, and these butterflies that keep coming inside and bumping into things.
Some secret things.
I don’t think it seems like there are many ideas in or behind them. I used to be awful concerned with what things meant and were for. It is a normal urge but also one to be drowned rather than swallowed. I am much more about just drawing things, because we bleed all over them anyway, see? We fingersmudge and we spit and we touch. So the things we draw are enough, so long as we are curious and full.
now we sleep.
I found you on the floor. You said it was just a nice place to lay down and look for the moon, but I had heard you fall.
I found a dead bird on the way home. Flat parts and fluff parts and blood parts. I wasn’t allowed to touch it because touching it would be unusual and I had promised to be mostly usual today. Tomorrow we shall be unusual again, yes?