journal entry; monday 26 may 2025 at 12:35 am

That night, God was an eel. She slipped silently through the telephone line, spluttering my talking mouth with water that smelled of algae and immortality and silt. I was skinning mangoes and hollowing out my words, feeding the sticky remains of both to the grass and earthworms. If my hands weren't so occupied, I'd still not have tried to hold God, I know that for sure.

Cupped palms are almost always cages, divinity or not.

It was a strange sight, you know. Seeing divinity sprout gills and consecrate everything human in the twitch of electricity. Pretty.

You know, I think there will be a certain relief in the way June pours over a city - candidly with unstipled heat and hours squeezed free of their flesh. I will have not felt this way since January, when everything shows up like washed-out trinkets, like shells gathered from an old trip to the beach, stripped clean of sand and smelling like the wood of my cabinet. When everything is home. I ramble. The morning smells of coffee already, and I admit, I am much too tired for coherence. Goodnight.