[LE BATEAU IVRE]

I go out in the later parts of the night, the earlier parts of morning, when even a common streetlamp is enough to make me sick with my own romantic yearnings. I keep reading Rimbaud and projecting his face onto the young men I meet. I dream through my first impressions, whispering, Do you sleep? Are you exiled in these bottomless nights?



















Strange turn of strangers. Went with Lorrie to an apartment full of people I didn't know. Every face abuzz with drunken pink light. Of course I didn't say much of anything to anyone. I swear to god I'm socially inept.

So Lorrie suggested I graph the people there?

















There was a guy named Dan who wanted to read my journal. Although he introduced himself with a fake name for whatever reason. Hunter. He talked about haikus but I was less-than-committed to the conversation. I'm sure I was preoccupied with something stupid. Like the way the radio tower looked like a vertebral column.

Never have I ever. The moon looked like something Garcia Lorca would note.

And every night it's my body flying across the bridge, over the waters, moths and shadows. I close my eyes I get a headache I think: Me. Finally the daughter of something.