Always in need of time, and sick of this fragility, the mind-body problem as antiquated and alive as ever seeming senseless, though, and jigsaw-puzzled and all in all contained by nothing but an heirloomish box with a porous lid of chance, four fickle sides of swirling words for grasping these torrents of feeling and maybe sometimes at the same time that monumental carved in marble blankness, and a flimsy bottom of the underlying assumption that rate x time might = out from under Their control with the top blown off like ins on the outside where reality so called so cold may strike with not-so-subtle bites, concrete claw marks left like abstract scratches more like burns and so the fuck what, really, so what if the pieces never fit back together again in the same way I never knew to begin with—that’s what I think, how.

That’s the kind of thing I think when for instance reading Czesław on Crusoe, of all small things, but not really on Crusoe so much as on the loss of any hierarchy that might place simplicity over introspection, the kind of thing that makes for ironic introspective thinking, running off like ah fuck what a dream of absolute isolation with the fire lit inside for melding molding scattered crumble bits and jagged soft and maybe sometimes supple pieces, a deep down lonesome burning dream of being stuck with only birds and trees and past selves for conversation and completely displaced I, an abstract-concrete dream of reassembled corporeal mental total substance calmly serenely looking for interlocutors in the hypothetical who of us has truly gotten over lost potential, of being safely happily grandly stranded amidst our flaws, breakages for repair, wreckages for reclamation, and who of us just wears disguises without any true and honest sustaining hope of rescue or deliverance.