We are only children in the book of days, but ancient in the book of moments, the
kind of life that makes you think of a long line of tiny little taxis.
I had to step away to see what I needed.
It wasn’t boring, some things were happening, but they weren’t things I could
welcome myself back to. Like a delicate exchange of used cat toys. As if the murmuring
itself were the subject of the murmuring.
I’ve abandoned facts. They’re too imprecise.
I had stepped into a room that contained me. Some rooms are supposed to do that.
The room’s door seemed to have legs that were running in place, like it thought opening
was somewhere to go, but if you never stop moving, can you be said to exist or only to
have once been there?
Of course we’re all pleasantly terrified, something sinister at the edge of the
clothing, like skin, or possibilities. Snug in his bun, the tasty victim noticed something
prickly in the food supply. It was the implication of a need chain, and it was the color
beyond the color of it, which is denser and allows black and white to be shown on its
bottom, the cloud page holding the story of folds inside, the story of folds and damp held
up off of.
Yes, as soon as we can, we should do things without being told just what to do.
It’s a very strong wind, but it rattles like an iron gate. Do I keep trying to get to sleep?
Do I rest between attempts? Do I sleep?
The way you go about your work may be more important than what you learn.
Steal your life from the passing clouds.
This quiet moment eased itself upon me. A persistent gnat becomes the world.
Nothing will hold still.
The smallest of gifts leads everywhere.
Rich Ives is the author of Tunneling to the Moon: A Psychological Gardener’s Book of Days currently being published in serial @ Silenced Press everyday in 2014 and forthcoming in paperback. Begin from the beginning, catch up, read daily. Just refer to the Burrow Guide.