could it be the weather?

alone with the rythmic measuring of time.

time is elastic. endless contortions. yet to find an even pounding.one foot in front of the other. we waltz like this. hand to mouth to fist.

i am alone with my lists. with my electronic arms. spindles of connections through wires and machines. my sister sings technocratic lullabies while i try to find my way through the absurd into meaning again.

weary i weave through identities. finding facades in my wardrobe each morn. i am fifteen new ideas and a caseful of memories.

i do not know what i will find on my way home.