My life must seem uncomplicated to you, it moves so slow. Plain events, forest songs. The strange tail of a plane in the sky; is there anything in my life that isn’t just white on blue? Do I ever talk to anyone but you? But I fit new boots each morning light. Avoidance is the greatest consumer of my time: where not to go, what not to wear, who not to talk to, what not to eat, when not to die, when not to lie beside you. When not to sing – because other people might hear me. Creating an avoidance theory as I walk along: the anti-relational process, so infinitely complicated by involuntary relations. I’m a string section, I’m a banjo, I’m a mule, I’m a herd. And I’m always drunk. My head is spinning in oxygen in my most sober moments, wondering out loud: who the hell brought me back from Jupiter? Was it you? Accusing you, again. And again. I heard once that all species need enemies to survive. I’ve been drinking your water ever since. I’ve been eating your food and tasting your blood. Only to keep you alive. We understand the world through the language we use. What this means is, essentially, that there are pros and cons to pros and cons. That there are helpless children who could be heroes. That there are mentally ill people where really there could be mentally extraordinary people. That there’s a me and a you when we could just be an us. My life is a burning bridge. And that’s all you need to know, really.