I want to write.
I grab the blue pen, the black pen, the keyboard. I will pick up the notebook, the phone, readjust the computer screen. Fluff and poke and stir at the words until they have risen to the surface for you to clearly see.
I feel present. More solid than I have in months. Heavier, denser, fuller than I’ve been in a long time. How did I stop being? Why do I stop feeling? I exert matter. I have a gravitational pull.
I am spilling, gaping, the flood is immeasurable.