Hungry birds

A balmy 22 degrees. I cannot sleep in the summer. I’ve been sleeping poorly in general. I am not a great sleeper. Sleep eludes me sometimes. There are just too many birds in London. Do not even get me started on the trees. What do you do, I am asked, I paint birds, I reply, but like Georgia O’Keefe paints flowers. Why? Darling, the light is too low, how can you not feel it, it makes my blood burn. If I keep these fires inside I might as well start pulling my hair out. Our bodies is where our spirits come to life, the shock of it, sex, sexing, transformation, a mere transliteration of the secret coda of the mastermind manifesting in the mess of the underside of the mastermind. It is worth one thousand words. You do not necessarily need birthday candles if your wishes are coming true. Don’t give up on me. The sun is on my skin, and from my headphones a beautiful woman from California called Fiona Apple is saying, Only kisses on the cheek from now on. I used to agree with these withdrawn, esoteric statements. I used to want nothing. Now I want everything, like a thought, that strikes me into life. I want to hold you, until the pain goes away. I want, when I leave, for you to feel a little less sadness. Hunger hurts.


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