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in taxi cabs carrying strangers to distant places, in broken lines of beaten asphalt, in poles erected from concrete and signs of warning. In the sun, I match its warmth and mimic its light and when it falls below the horizon I radiate under the moon. I am a safeguard for the undecided, a warning for those in need. I am a neutral shoulder, on both my body and the side of a road. pay no attention and still, I am seen.

lye and pirozhki and cool slabs of stone pressing divots into the backs of bare thighs, one long night seeping into sticky dawn, 100 ways to say hello! and none of them being the lullaby crushed against your skull, peony-stained mouths and crumbling brick walls and a dozen heartbeats sinking to the pit of your stomach, dream-eaters and star-slurpers gambling on dead trees, bop curiosity and weirdhotgood and a syrupy smile burnt to the back of your neck, something sick-red pushing its way through the fog, shadow-watchers swallowing tumble-weeds whole in the distance, the watery street you’re lying on twisting and everything tipping onto its side.

Though the night is gone, Its dream still stirs. It brought me to an island Desolate and wild as A shifting cloud. I, neither the captain Nor the night, watch a man Under the damp mist. I shrink into a maple, Gradually withering in the dark, Do I no longer look forward To June? One maple has already fallen into the sea And I, submissive, Am left unnamed and left out.

She weaved her web above my bed with strands of hair stuck to the pillows after the last night you spent and strands of a narrative I’d lost in time the abandoned string of a balloon who needed their space and remnants of run on sentences. My memory spun faster after she moved in, I’ve always been inspired by dancers. Dreams used to slip through my fingers before they formed fists. A pool resting in an open palm only big enough for a fraction of a reflection. Singular open eye shedding lashes, it reflects in the water for only a moment She liberates them from their shallow pond Before I can blink she has returned them to captivity, resting nestled in her web. She has moved into my dreams; I see her most when I’m asleep. Ravenous woman, she eats them all, sometimes before I can catch even a glimpse. She folds them up neatly, tiny origami insects of subconscious fragments. Perhaps her web is a portal, a multidimensional existence near my window. Maybe she has not moved into my dreams maybe she has only commandeered them Where I thought I would find resentment there is only respect. I feel emphatic towards her and the weight she bears. The scenes that play through a dark and empty theater while I sleep are expansive. They emit a dangerous glow echoed in the hypodermic needles of her tiny fangs She swallows the slides straight from the projector I am left sitting alone in a faint blue glow. She expands every night, she is grasping but not possessive. We have created an ecosystem of exchange. She traps my dreams and even while waking, the thoughts I fail to hold on to. Keeps them safe. In return, I let her stay. While I stare at the ceiling that sometimes gives way to the sky, I practice patience and pray to the gods of daydreams. She descends from a single trapeze strand with innate grace, Baring a translated version of my thinkings, Unrecognizable in organization from the way they escaped the ridges in my brain. Our conversations verge on nonsensical Her native language is magical thinking It is not always compatible with standard English She pulls in words and phrase from tongues I have only passed on cracking sidewalks In cities I used to live in, In the cartography of false courage. She speaks in whispers and lyrics I can only hear her when the lights are out and barely above the noise Of the street we both look over while we are piecing puzzles of notion together She has a gift when it comes to making connections, Something about the act of threading. Nothing is safe. If you take off your armour, at least your skin can see the sun.

Out of the shades and shadows she comes to me— a lover with no face and a body of moonlight My spirit wife is a demon in disguise; my Lady Lazarus, maiden of the night A sweet succubus with phantom fingertips that trace my skin She burns cold but I could never desire heat while under her snowflake touch A shadow of lips kisses me like a whispered sigh Between groans are terms of endearment: my love, my Lilith she’s crawled to me from the second circle of hell, slid under the sheets that I grip, filled the room with the smell of sex like freshly turned earth Chills run down my neck, up my arched back fingernails on satin soft as the fuck beneath my breath In this spiritual ecstasy I’m St. Theresa Ravished by a revenant, seduced by a siren and her song of sighs she’s turned me into the withered rose that rests on her tombstone My Eurydice shade leaves like the breeze and I wish that my bed was an open grave so that I might join her again.

When finding the derivative, one is attempting to measure the sensitivity to change that a given function has as the independent variable is manipulated. Throughout the corridors, there is a low buzzing, a deep hum, emitted uniquely in the darkness of artificial night. Consistently at 2100, the light-emitting diodes transition into a dimmer output level in an ill-fated attempt to recreate Earth’s day to night cycle, in pursuit of giving the crew a sense of familiarity in a place where time must be manufactured. The only thing it succeeds in, I hypothesize, is inhibiting the required amount of rest in members of the crew with hearing attuned towards a wider array of frequencies. It is now 0300, and sleep has proven unattainable. INQUIRY: How does one measure change upon a starship? ANALYSIS: Unknown. Research forthcoming. It is statistically rare that a single individual can become a worthy competitor against me in chess. This statement is not meant as a boast, as many humans are apt to exaggerate with, but as a logical fact and a verified truth. I find myself staring at the chess set placed on the table of my room, paused in the midst of a truly fascinating game that I predict I am only 54.012% likely to be victorious in. The reverberation of the hour is clear and ringing, likely why I am standing contemplating possible chess moves instead of obtaining sleep before alpha shift. The knight should be moved, for optimal defense. However, the moves my opponent could follow this with are infinite, due to his complete and utter illogical mastery of the unexpected. In other words, his pure, concentrated humanity. I find my lips twitching upwards, and I move the knight. INQUIRY: How does one measure change upon a starship? ANALYSIS: Unknown. Research inconclusive. It would be remiss to state that the incessant humming of the starship’s artificial night is comforting. It is a noise that has proved to be disconcerting enough to cause me to create mental shields against its presence on a regular basis. However, there are a multitude of times advanced hearing is greatly advantageous, aside from the obvious applications on duty. Current examples: the slow beating of a human heart, the steady breathing of contented sleep against my side, the warm white noise of love echoing throughout my entire being. Parted from me and never parted, never and always touching and touched. T’hy’la, the electric drone is inconsequential, and the peace you bring lulls me to sleep. INQUIRY: How does one measure change upon a starship? ANALYSIS: Unknown. Research inconclusive. DATA EDITED: The same way one measures change everywhere: through the passage of time artificial or otherwise, through friends lost and friends made, through scars, through new smile lines or the lack thereof. Project ongoing. Research forthcoming, until the end of these five years and every year ensuing.

In the still, restless night Feathers spread in your skin And pierce your bones like A wild horse, Its footprints a wheezy echo Dotting the lowlands Why don’t you look at the man in front of you? He is too old to catch your attention; The gloom of his eyes Consumes your thoughts. Why do you avoid His gaze, young man? Heaven and earth Can no longer hold you. There are bones are under your feet; They have long since lost their sense of pain! Look up, young man. Look at me.

I cannot say where you and I will stand in one year, five years, or ten. My love having sprung from me unplanned, I cannot say where you and I will stand. A blessing, it would be to stay hand in hand, in dreams of fortunate love, still again I cannot say where you and I will stand in one year, five years, or ten.

The world embraces him like a gift-- "Set him free," said the old stump, Blurting out some precious oaths The yellow-grayish wall is like a chopping board, bringing the moist atmosphere from west Is it all a dreamland? We whisper intimately and Our hands blend in silence. We love his filthy hands, his posture, his forgiveness These days, what do we call Love? What do we call Ignorance? How do we touch things? What do we hold? The moon, the full moon, the water? No one knows our existence Our hope is a storm that ceases in the sky We refuse to know his real name; We make predictions, take guesses And feel sharp pains In the end.

- The god walks in between worlds The mirror is just a line Bird hangs on the line, points to the sky and says: This is my land. points to the land and says: This is my sky. Bird then says to the stars: The world is mine, You, are my subjects. The sea is also a line Bird hangs on the line forever The sun is born from here Bird says: I am the moon. The sun is the moon’s voice The moon, is just another bird “DO NOT TURN LEFT! THE SUN IS ONLY AN ACCIDENT! BIRD IS A LIAR! BIRD CREATED LANGUAGE! LANGUAGE IS ONLY A CONCEPT! CONCEPT DOES NOT EXIST!” Bird flaps its wings Bird’s language is Painting’s language In this language: Bird, the supreme king, as long as its subjects have the same eyes Mirror is just a line Bird hangs on the mirror Bird sees the world overlapping But Bird cannot see itself Bird is just a Bird Bird is Bird’s moon Bird is Bird’s hometown.

it’s 6:50 am if we become separated from each other meet me underneath the shadow of the watermelon vine it is 6:50 am I was wondering how it must have been for god when she made everything it’s 6:50 am I’ll be whatever you want it’s 6:50 am the birds still haven’t gotten up it’s 6:50 am I think I’m watching you watch me or you’re watching me watch you it’s 6:50 am this watermelon tastes melancholy it’s 6:50 am I’m gonna drive until I see the sun haunted by the feeling that my hiding place isn’t watertight enough it’s 6:50 am it’s just the suspicion a pulsing light of the blue flower flame

depth of the hill rolling stones tumble down spiral in turn chipping away as it nicks and scrapes down its path a century of churning stone pilling at the bottom of *** **** the water slushes against the skin of stone a cold wave washes above all I can see is the distant sun from atop the hill weighing down on me I own this sullied shore but there is no use in a **** with dirty water and so I reach the depth of the hill rolling stones tumble down spiral in turn chipping away as it nicks and scrapes down its path a century of churning stone pilling at the bottom of *** **** the water slushes against the skin of stone a cold wave washes above all I can see is the distant sun from atop the hill weighing down on me I own this sullied shore but there is no use in a **** with dirty water and so I reach the depth of the hill rolling stones tumble down spiral in turn chipping away as it nicks and scrapes down its path a century of churning stone pilling at the bottom of *** **** the water slushes against the skin of stone a cold wave washes above all I can see is the distant sun from atop the hill weighing down on me I own this sullied shore but there is no use in a **** with dirty water and so I reach the a dark and true nothing that shatters into a soft warm den in the sand where it dreams of a dark and true nothing that slithers into a soft warm den in the sand where it dreams of a dark true nothing