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To paint: even more into zero. Lowering the contrast.
Color, no color. The effort of erasing.
Strong and unsettled.
Liquid escape.

The ability to become estranged.
The day entered but didn’t say anything.

To grasp a concrete statement by letting something slip from sight.
Sugar in honey is still just sugar. But its glycemic index—well.

Pull the brain back in.
With a maximum of—whatever.

How the world of self is subsumed under use and not use of drug. How I used to love that little spoon. Scooping Kellogg’s Choco Crispies or Pops with it. Taking these tiny, tiny portions, the milk seeping along the sides of my tongue, and the mouth never truly full. Inside it's never too cold. Cold never wins here.

Need of city-system, a grid of destinations and paths. Uncertain steps while I wait for radiation from the world. Suddenly there is a need and no idea where to put it. To meet it, I would have to step into the world. The world then reacts as if me was foreign. Though it is I who does not act. The battery crawls forward, barely. Cold historical buildings. Even with losing weight, the SELF does not diminish. 

She looks uncertain but her card reader is working.
Does her gaze mean me? A little crush. For ten minutes.

Birds flew past, scattered, not in a flock or in sharp formation.
Loosely in the gray, like concepts that are not meant to exist here.
There is a studio with a long table in my head and a second one somewhere out in the land.
We searched for the space for long as it’s space is with windows along one wall.
Beneath stand the flat files cabinets. 
We go through the drafts.

I scribble in and decide on a floral one. 
Let’s take it and production begins.

How the downfall
Keeps cutting
Through the sport
How the crash
Acts through
Sports

I turn around and feel content. I had come to a meal to which I wasn’t invited, looking at someone else’s steak and fries, at unfamiliar faces. I feel the content. At the door I offer a smile, I guess. Then I go. Thought of Hans G Helms and Monika’s painting with the floppy dick, the ego, and the beauty of its absence. A curl tickles my brow. A handle is missing on the rowing resistance machine.

Force the muscles
Force the brain
All in vain

The cigarette
Does not save me

Eyes to the ground
That was close

Ears to the ground
Das war schon immer so

The moment of the real stroke. It passes.
Done and fulfilled. Into the place.
Out of the place.

Don’t break in, don’t break in.
Not next week either, and regards to the bouncer.
It rushes, I rush, and I call it a day and go back to painting now.