Feeling sad and weird about memories of recent things,
and art making, and recent memories of art making, and
how I feel about art, and conversations, and the distance
between me and those who I have conversations about
recent things and art and art making.

I only write now, when drunk.
Or when I can't sleep.

Lying awake for hours in the dark with my mind buzzing,
singing like the constant throb of cricket sounds in the summer.
Or the dregs of cicadas, their population dwindling but their
horrible shedding of skin still present. Their empty shells
litter the side walk in front of my house, under an old oak tree.
I see them caught up in the ditch that the windshield wipers live in,
in my three month borrowed car, when I park in the shade.
But, I digress.

Lying awake in bed, with the knowledge that work comes soon
and thinking of a man's voice, coming through the radio speakers.
Garbled and staticy with that AM radio fuzz charm. Stuck in traffic.
"That blue dot, by the way, is earth" he says, before Frank spins the
radio dial to the next fuzzy station, and then the next.
The noises from the speakers sound like the roar of an ascending, space
bound, craft. Headed toward where the world really is just a little blue dot.