Track Midnight

Track the midnight changes, all powder burning tea, et cetera. My head, my hand, every day a distance. Cringing floor, tourniquet-essence extracted from this gone globe...I’m living off dust of broken civilizations. I go to bed, get up, again/again, bed a place of Random Image Hunger. All claims to the contrary, all walls up around me, mockumentaries for my making...in making I am made something less than whole, something more than the null set. And if I go running (or thinking of her running) via cities, thinking of mirrored selves, endlessly expressing, I can go precisely where? Tension in the gone world. Ten tons in the gone whorl. Then run in a gun whirl. Wing Chun and a fun gurl. Feel something? I ask myself and detect a wishing spot, as of a new organ growing inside me.