002:

My writing is held in hands, flipped through, as one flips through a cookbook or an album of old pictures. They say things like “poetic” and “imagining” and “oscillates” (pronouncing the C). I don’t tell them that I record exact times in every journal entry, or that none of this came from anywhere but nowhere. But they tell me that my late night thoughts have themes, make sense, hold mystery and (of all things) optimism.

I don’t know this writer. She is my name, she is the inside of my head. She makes my incoherence into coherence, gives me hope.