Lavender, I’ve tried lavender. And camomile and eucalyptus and bergamot and white wine. There are ailments too gnarly for your honeyed words. There’s something I’m trying to say but I keep coming up empty handed, eyes muddled, words too heavy for an isolated touch but it's exactly that which is requisite here. I get angry at people for not understanding that which I myself can’t decipher myself - it is a strange thing, to stumble around yourself like a ghost, to haunt that which you inhabit. Sometimes I find pieces of myself tripping out of movies, off of pages and I scribble furiously in the margins, pen snippets of dialogue on the back of my hands - clinging onto these consolidatory gestures for dear life, holding them up to the light like indisputable proof of something (don’t ask me what, I’m still not sure). I don’t mind if you leave me alone with my books, it’s easier amongst words that never reach fruition; the dialogue is thick with significance but that makes it feel more like real life than your small talk and shallow observations, which is, in itself, contradictory. ‘Not a word is wasted’ - high praise for a book but its existence in the tangible would render me speechless.