.𖥔 ݁ ˖.𖥔 ݁ ݁ ˖𖥔. ݁₊ ݁₊ ⊹ 𖥔 ݁ . ݁˖ . ݁⊹ .𖥔 ݁ ˖ ݁ ݁.𖥔 ݁˖ ⊹₊. 𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼𖤣𖥧𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖥧𖡼 𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃 procrastinating, dreaming ݁⊹ 11.20.25 terrible biopsy today; stale croissant and dried fruit afterwards. 11.16.25 —zuzu cleaning herself in the slant of light cutting through the floor from the kitchen window —inside the throb of an unclenched jaw, the bone white pain —oil beaded on the glasses' rim —a ruin of dark blue polish etched off by an amateur archeologist —where does a voice go after illness? where is the last echo's call after death? 11.06.25 the lip of the tall white candle on my table is darkened from transferring the flame to the smaller, squat candle next to it. outside, more leaves fall after they've lost their color, and I see my neighbor's driveway and house appear in the windows the interlocking branches of our bushes make from the absence of leaves. I swirled chocolate chips into my coffee, scalded the milk, ate a scoop of almond butter, and wrote for a bit. brain fog is strange in that I remember how language came to me easily once but the more I think of that time, the further I move from the way language can act through me now—in this way, loss inures the present into a reliquary, when I am interested first in writing beyond crypts and mausoleums made too soon from the detritus of old lives. grief work is not an abstraction, but what abstracts the present can be indulgence that distracts from my work. what I write now is simple, plain, without adornment. I have lost words, their synonyms and shape. now is the task to not merely find them, but unearth new ones. the metaphors I love have fallen away; I run through them, kicking the heaps they make in the street. every act in autumn becomes a metaphor, but to call them only metaphor is to denounce the material: the red leaves hanging from our window have lost their color. this is not a metaphor but a statement of fact, the reality of a moment ever turning from me as I look upon its contours. I made my coffee, tried to write again. I am sick; my body has changed; my brain seems wreathed often in shadows; I am carrying the flame back and forth between two candles, knowing that they will burn down eventually, but for now, I run my finger quickly through the light. 10.31.25 ate leftover seed crackers for breakfast; j fixed the milk frother so i had a mock cappuccino (steamed milk in my french press coffee); slept poorly; woke early; lit candles and passed 15,000 words in my october journal; listened to a new neko case album; emailed people i didn't want to; texted people i did want to; logged my 107th book of the year; took my meds but bit into one to halve it and tasted only bitterness; loved the little blue pill; boiled water; boiled water again; pulled my hair back; laughed with j; looked at the leaves—