You never give away your heart; you lend it from time to time. If it were not so, how could we take it back without asking?

However, when time fails you, so does everything else. The gift economy, the value system. Neither are reducible, or bearing the propensity to be reductive; that is, if I assume I am measured by time alone. Not time, but moments.
I am moment-specific. Does that mean I’m volatile?

14: 38
What was supposed to be an afternoon engagement with the politics of text and (t)error (at this point the parenthetical pause has become quite ineffectual) became a feckless wandering into De Botton instead, desperate to find a divine message within the pages of half-fiction, half-destiny. Turn to page 21, “…reading meaning into everything.” Real desire lacks articulacy, De Botton aptly writes, or in my mind’s euphemistic cynicism: There is nothing to say to you in a medium void of sense and structure, in spite of. By now, I have become an analytic philosopher complete with charred lungs, non-existent sleeping habits and waning social skills, commencing the simulative interpellation of “I” as the objet petit a, and objet itself.

16:58
Not quite the conversational topic, but today it was raining. And it was perfect. The last I wrote sequentially, there was an interstellar demise in abject procession and I lost my body to an ocean. Here, now, there is only the familiarity of comfort in waiting, as if it was the most natural and necessary thing (for anyone) to do, to be. Chapter 18, Romantic Terrorism. We are acquainted to perceive time in the distance of eternity, in light-years but they are merely the cadence of empty, immeasurable signification. In truth, or in a truth that I’m most familiar with; time is bound to memory, inflection, images and sensation. Time is the strange post-markings of people that constantly walk in and out of my life, in medias res.

21:42
The streets are foreign tonight, rarely illuminated in such a melancholic sort of opal, like a marine aquarium. Still, it becomes garish under the weight of a constant gaze; I am a minnow with the luxury of space yet trapped in every sense of an indecipherable, postmodern topos. I cannot see where boundaries end and abandonment begins, and yet I knew there were cartographic blockades in moments of blindness. In the span of eight hours, I knew vaguely that I was neither Chloe nor De Botton’s “I”, and in a moment of dissociation, sought to have the capacity to (receive) Love eventually, but above all, also the capacity to be patient.





Analysis could never be anything but flawed
- and therefore never stray far from the ironic.

I have never been more certain about uncertainty, the lucid and ambiguous are as the bones beneath (my) skin, like the clavicular rise and fall with each breath. When I am tired of running, I will stop. To be worthy of the mirror-bearer, I will breathe slowly, if measurable at all; out of fear, out of mysterious revelation. I am my own person; afraid and independent, careless and carefree. Start as I mean to go on, and then I realize how vast it all is, this matter of the mind. I am confounded by the shining water and the size of the world.

She wades into the water with me, deep enough to wet the bottom of her hair, and takes my face in both her hands and kisses me on the mouth. Then she turns away and I watch her walk back across the sand and up over the rocks. I begin to row, using her body as a marker. I always will.

Mine is a sea-faring soul in the light of boundless oceans and the shadow of the gulls.

Once, there were two persons, not people; with autumn hearts resolute like street lamps and side-walks, kept in secret time amidst the relentless maelstrom of lights and sound. It is often said that one experiences the calm before the storm, but if we watched them, how we would envy them. An unlikely dalliance, caught adrift the lasts of lightness; still they conspire against an inexplicable fury of storm and stress, sturm und drang; in the beauty and violence of taming the storm itself.