death

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Come sit on this mossy log on the steaming hot bank of the deep wide brook, by the cattails lilypads and skunk cabbages.

I won’t write his name, for the same reasons I don’t ever say it out loud.

I went past him on the bus. I could only see his feet, but I knew it was a him.

Short-notice tasked to take minutes in meeting. Don’t know how. Never done it before. Will make long notes now and hammer into shape later.

Two truths and a lie:

He had turned into a cat sometime in the night.

Everyone was dying on the boat.

She’s fucking crying again. I can’t stand it when she cries.

I write when I´m not tired, I don´t know why, I guess for the pleasure of passing time, and maybe making someone passing later.

There once was a planet infested with trees infested with humans infested with political issues in the making.