it is nighttime i am bothered i am sorry to bother you it is this hour at this hour it is nighttime and i am still, here, in this state. can you be bothered to rearrange or to dismantle or to create a new language entirely for this. i am sorry to put you to this test. this request. it is morning it is nighttime and i was dreaming of sloths in costa rica and pad plumbing or plumbers or the man who won't stop talking over my voice. so sorry to rearrange your world for this but can i bother you, the plumber, any amount of sewage or retaliatory life lesson. in the nighttime i am dreaming and there is another country and there are bombs and there is a movie. but we don't watch the movie we are the movie and you are rearranging the furniture the couch over here no the couch over here no i think the couch over here. in the morning i think i was dreaming but the couch is gone and the sewage is piled in corners and it smells like lavender excrement and forestalled love (i wrote you 1000 love letters). in the morning i think i was reading and imagined your fictional process. i was bothered and feared you were rearranged but your words are the same, on the page, though the sounds drift through my head and i remember when it was nighttime, in the mountains, and there was an optimism a language a lesson in indigenous flowers and local vegetation, the fresh night air, and morning.