at the edge of

I am still alive but not really. I am skulking at the edge of sleep deprivation. I am skulking and I am flailing.

You won’t see me when I pass by your window, the edges of me feathered like old paint. You won’t see me when I pass through and you won’t see me when I pop like a smoke-filled bubble.

-pop-

The trip to Arizona was beyond wonderful. I am gathering my master’s program application things. My friend Inkbot might be extending her wonderful home to me and Zen soon. I mailed a sad letter. There are folded piles of clothes on my bed and stalks of lavender drying on the sill. This weekend, after celebrating six months of (HMB + the MSG), I steal him off into the forest he knew before me.

Of course there’s more to come, but I just had to check in before I became entirely unreal again.