One writes with one’s desire, and I am not through
desiring. (Barthes) Six eggs are boiling on the stove.
Twelve biscuits in the oven. I’m reading correspondence
about sexual fantasies (or lack thereof). Mine are plenty.
Like getting so close to someone’s face (getting my face
too close to someone else’s face) that there is a red heat.
Red to be seen. Red to be felt.
Back at work. Getting an omelet. I have so many eggs.
Thanksgiving day at 3:44pm Pacific Time all alone
and very happy. Happy is thankful. Proust. More balloons.
