a Thursday night. been listening to housemates singing over guitars and candles. the sweetness of human creation. the persistent sensation that there is a piece of my magic i can't access, and that it is blocked by this psych drug I take. missing missing missing it. realization that i've been trying to assimilate, keeping the company of non-icaristas, slipping under the radar where no one thinks I'm one of the mad ones. realizing it's an awful lonely place to be and i just don't fit there. feeling like my wings are tucked under my hoodie, on sabatical, taking refuge from the bad weather and the big city, hiding from my own fears about what might happen when i let them out.

there has been no poetry lately. an attempt at linearity, responsibility, showing up. walking down 16th street without seeing all the broken people begging for change. thickening my skin. a litany of wonders neglected. my room has no windows. my ceiling is a roof. no clouds get through. no sunrise in the morning. strange cold january and this old star inside me just refuses to stop burning, refuses to let me be just a waitress, just a housemate, just a girlfriend. whispers restlessly about books to write, art to make, revolutions to join, perspectives to shift. without instructions. the dilemma of time, space, and other people's eyes. noise, silence, and the demons that dwell there. forgetting breath. avoiding stillness. all the restless questions of why, and how, and when dominating small moments of perfect intimacy. an agitation in the blood and a never-ending chill in the air. and all this mad, mad love like a bulb under 3 feet of snow...