Today my laptop registers like an organ like I can feel it, even from the other side of the house I should find my own rotten way back to some kind of mindfulness practice I should open the windows of my dark room I should read more of the works of celebrated poet Mary Oliver she wrote about geese—which is huge

This summer I can feel myself turning back into an animal. I wake up early and seek out trees, walking through the expansive quiet of the park until the heat starts feeling sharp on my skin. I leave the blinds closed, so when I return home the building is dark and familiar, and as I shut the door behind me I feel a satisfaction I can only describe as territorial.

There is a very fine line between writing and just sitting down like the difference between asking and begging,