otherwise responding to winter a blast of mist breaks away the squirrells having eaten all of the bulbs your screeching quiet thought working its way toward multiple pages and i don't even know after all of this time how to create an argument - there was a change in the weather but it helps little how no one ever cultivated the precise moment of epiphany or the particular ability to record oneself onto the page or how to create a self with no memory - i have no stakes in this having little relevance to the way that limb moves and the blood daily a concrete description - of little more than what repeats - a circular fragmented present -