It’s July 14 and it’s been so quiet ever here. Over here.
I’m so out of practice the letters are jumbled and the words scrambled. As though my fingers don’t quite remember how this works, as though my mind can’t keep up with thoughts so long dormant that it makes up new ones which pertain to nothing pressing.
There is nothing pressing, nothing urging me to speak of anything in particular, those voices that accompany me in so many moments are silent and I live afraid of their never return. I know it’s not so but it seems so reasonable that something neglected will find a new home, isn’t this so?
I’ll pick my way back, and leave slim traces so that I can more easily follow myself home.