I really wanted to write yesterday. I needed to describe the emotion -- mosaic of emotion, tiles the shape of cloud, hard transparent tiles of lucite, but prickly with spars, but breathing, a mosaic with a respiratory system, a wall, a preservable wall, a crazy wall with such intriguing niches to explore.

But I didn't write. I went to sleep.

Oh my obligation, my shining, my authenticity, as authentic as a raggedy carcass lying on a plate, as authentic as dust, a shred of balloon skin, how to get to you. Proper breathing is very important. To suck a swig of the cranberry air from my secret cylinder; to hold my breath in those hostile movie meridians until I turn blue, blue and cold as a tile ghost, and then faint and revive in my closet.

Some deep stumpy limbic sleep brain tells me to shut up.

Some furcoated madeup lipstuck wig woman said "ego" to me.

Some mass of slimy frog egg spawn jell tells me to lie still or I will never be born.

huhhh
if I can't trust the engine, what can I trust?