28 february

This is it, this waiting for spring, that strangles. March and warmth and substance stand flagrantly out of sight, waiting, while dull wet winter sits out its nun-penitence, silent and unmoving as a giant stillborn baby. I cannot endure the sitting and waiting and the giant aloneness. Warm aloneness is far preferable to cold aloneness after all, and spring sets an itch under my skin to reinstate myself in the land of the living. It is dark now, and at the end of my dark bouts of Selfness sit always the warm pink of Faces, warm other Islands to whom i reciprocate roots, reaching, each to each, like mushroom spores; umbilical cords. As if singular the blood can't feed but somehow Together some new blood is born, and it feeds; as if somehow we can justify our being alive that way.