Sometimes I feel like being a little abstruse. Sometimes I want to be willful. Sometimes, I’d rather not make sense.
Rather than looking for things I have lost, I prefer to go looking for the holes through which I lost them. When I am tired of mourning for real things, I start to inhabit invented things. Maybe the narratives of my days people my made-up places despite my best efforts, but if I do not go around noticing them, it is almost like they don’t exist. If I am willful enough, abstruse enough, the world can be made of typography and wings for words and simple places to drop off my thoughts and let the waves of mind and time carry them away.