In an airplane, reading Louise Gluck right when all the lights dim down and artificial stars blink onto the ceiling. In May, when real life became auto fictional, I decided not to live for earthly possessions. In the process I see signs everywhere: lilac rabbits, rose petals, shapes in the smoke. This is how I am meant to exist: liminal, in-between, like the connecting point between a river and an ocean. Spiders thread glass along my eyes; it would be unforgiveable to stop them. In my diary yesterday I wrote about the desire to write a long poem, the way someone would plan a garden. I want to show myself the same care. I attempt to open my despairs but they latch on like half-truths. I spend most of my time walking in circles, breathing in late summer.