What a lofty title.

The sun is angling through the windows of my room and into the living room. The curtains are open. There are shadows on my wall, shadows I have never noticed before. I take a picture.

This one goes out to G. We were talking about the different ways of using. We were talking about J and E and how they were using. I was comparing the experience of being with fine shyt in a beautiful place, in the heat of the day, to my nights writing in a dark room, in front of a wooden table, waiting for the sun to rise. As it has

There's been a reshuffling. G is in J's bed. C moved into J's studio. J is in Washington now. He is there and I am here. Mental drift: wish u well tazparis (RIP), hunnakay, holdmedown. Thinking about his journey, now about the holdmedown bar: having thoughts of suicide at only 12 that shit's so weird. The vulnerability I was talking about earlier, explaining it to N — what "ambient" meant in this context. My eyes blur my vision. I close them to feel the sinus compression. I feel the gentlest burn, knowing this state will pass. I am not an object at rest.

G is sleeping behind a closed door. There may be another closed door behind it. To the left of this first confirmed closed door is a vitrine with six incadescent lightbulbs and three copies of Père Goriot. I placed the lightbulbs there. I bought them from the hardware store on this block. They are technically illegal. J left the copies of Père Goriot out on the street. They were in French. He did not mean to order them in French. I brought them back in and placed them in the vitrine. This was over a year ago.

Only now there is nothing left to be used. The mine has run out of dynamite and the work that remains will be done by hand. G walks in. He has slept and I haven't. I use the phrase 'delirious state'. He is leaving J's bed, he is going to go to his. I realize that I should own a bed, properly. This has been on my mind lately. Purchasing a bedframe to reconfigure the room that I live in. And replacing the mattress I inherited from M, who lived in this room before K. It was in the basement. It is probably time to let it go. G daps me out and walks out the front door. His hand is still wet from washing his hands. He washed his hands after going to the bathroom.

I close my eyes and consider the relation between the keyboard and myself. I think of what I could type with my eyes closed. It is silly but I decide to proceed like this. I decide to type what I see with my eyes closed.

It is a sort of visual hallucination. With my eyes closed, I do not see any substantial figures. Yet as I type that , an outline of a horse appears in the gray darkness. There is an imagined beam of orange light. And then the populiation of the city floods in. Many of them are wearing orange capes. It is as though I am tracking with them, sliding to the right on a cart on a small railroad line, constructed for this purpose, to observe, only the scene grows darker and tunnels and caves begin to obscure my view of these people wrapped in orange.

I open my eyes and they are gone. I close them to try to get them back, only now they are absnet. The dominant colors are purple, for a moment I thought blue as well, but it sos only really purple, it dominates my field of vision. Tjere is so much, I wonder if I will have trouble distinguishing ne thing from the other.

But this is not a problem for me to deal with. I tilt my chin up; above the pruple section is a light fixture with red crystals. I think whether to turn it on or off. My eyes tighten and I see the silhouette of a man. His silhouette wears glasses; for some reason I assume he is blind. These are sunglasses. It is no longer the night.

I am thinking about the morning. I will sleep through the morning. In the afternoon, I will pull dried fragments out of my nose. And reflect upon them. There is a chance I wash my sheets. Now that G is gone, there is no one else in this aprtment but me. It is quiet right now, but the noise will flood in. The light will flood in.

I use the little that's left. I google 'what do you call things that are used' in an attempt to differentiate between things used. There remains a little left. Of me, there remains a little left. This one goes out to G, he was lauding how I use, what I make, how I move. The latter two fragments... artistic license. That's the phrase they use to justify language like that. When the language does not quite match the reality, reality that has now passed. I close my eyes again, thinking of G and fiction and gables. There is this faded set of words floating, rotating in the gray ahead of me. There is a flood and I close my eyes to feel the water distrivuted evenly.

There is very little left. I hope that my rest will be significant. The sun is rising. And what is left now is neglible. G has seen the caves. The caves with paintings. I sent him a link to an article. I close my eyes again.

I was telling N that I have't painted in a long time, a long time by my standards, which is now six months, since the show I did with J. I clench my eyes. This shifts the grays that I see for a moment and then things settle.mThere is a room with light, nothing in it. It is a simple room. I question the apparition of this room. Now my mind is not the mind moves. For a moment it was dokkar tree dysfybctuibaluty, Biw ut gas akk dussikved, U an fkiatubg thgriughl the auskes. U hear myself thunjk but there is a silence ybsoijeb tgiyfgts .

I open my eyes and decide to keep the errors. I think to myself I need a typewriter and I have the thought to scour the Internet in search of one, only this is not the place and time. This was a happy night. I felt joy. I backspace and close my eyes. I see work to do. I see blessings. I exist in delirium my ision at this moment us... I open my eyes again. I recognize that I am trying to summon a typewriter through this blindness and its errors.

I wanted to write about the routes. I wanted to write about the routes so that this writing can remain here instead of becoming lost. C was texting me about The Departed, I was texting him that I once had something to say, but that I couldn't recall what I once had something to say. I close my eyes again and the dream that it summons is more vivid than the last. I know time is dwindling.

Strenuous is not the right word, but for some reason, maybe the machine, maybe the interface, maybe (certainly) my mental state — it is not a sentence. I am attempting to write about running routes and speed and cutting — and getting open and creating opportunities. Using wide receivers as metaphors for writing practices. Livestream delirium, rub my psalms, for some reason closing eyes opens the echo of the Detroit Lions logo. A sign that time is running short. I need a typewriter, as I said before, as I close my eyes one last time and keep them this way. I am blind in a raucous bar. Everybody is drinking beer, some are drinking shots of well liquor, and there is women's baskebtall on the tv. I open my eyes to see what I have rendered. I make a change.

As far as route running goes this is some diva shit. 5 yard in. 5 yard out. Dig route. X Y Z receiver. Scheme fit. All parts of the equation. I was texting A about the equation of the fit pic, building off of a conversation with N: mis en scene, clothing, posture, pose. These are forms of language that are read. I slump into the couch. There is no more to use. I close my eyes again, split between the etymology of route and sleep. I'm looking for the origin. I sang those words by myself the night before last. In this room by myself. I keep typing , the delirium of production.

It will end and I will ask questions.

Coda:

It is the night after now. I am reconciling with the events above. There are more events above the events above, events outside of this scroll. I don't think the writing above is my best writing. I was thinking about how /publicsecrets started from a period of sobriety.

I was texting A that /reorientation felt like a drug-fueled chase to recreate /publicsecrets, despite the different conditions. This addiction has taken its toll on me. I have known that I'm an addict for a long time. I've talked about trying to figure out how to channel it. I have been struggling with this as of late. The result is unhappiness. I am struggling against myself.

It seems obvious that removing use from the picture would help with this struggle. Even now, I feel greater control over the words that I write. But I know now that I cannot just be producing for production's sake. I've known this but it becomes more and more obvious. Maybe this is getting older.

The Purpose of Writing — there's a magic to it, one that has done so much for me. The same magic in reading, the same magic in music, the magic in language. I repeat myself: Writing of the holiest purpose, to transform reality. But to transform into what, for what purpose. For good, for salvation. I have been wanting to make Devotional Music. But I need to start by asking myself what that means.