Just a little comfort and ease. Comfort and ease. I find myself wondering just what's been working here, what little fragments have been integrated and reintegrated. I'm dissolving like a cloud. Air gel, as it were. I don't want any of these things.

The real problem, I think, is that there's too much emphasis on ambition. Forget passion. Forget ambition. Forget everything. Everything dissolves without comfort and ease. Make your home in the faraway. Faraway, the comfort. Make it all a brakeshop. Bake shop. Bougainvillea. These, these trees. I don't know hat.

There's nothing here. There's no one. There's just vegetables and decay, and a few pricey hostile moments. And I guess some brittle, compact engagement. My fingernails are turning blue. I still want that continental shelf island, the little one, down in chalk.

Forget it.