I lost sleep last night—so tired my head is a potato. My life was always art, but work made it dirt. Is life always dirt? I lost my night working potatoes. A tired head, but my last sleep was art. My part is in. A new bearing from which thick plants bud. Much depression arises from the underground.

A man who ‘writes’ messages me on OkCupid saying he won’t read other authors, wants ‘it to be original’. A receipt is in the corner of the chat window. I hope that he gets the message. Cupid messages the other man who gets a window of hope that authors me. He wants the message to be original, he writes on a receipt.