I keep thinking back to a newness so clean it would negate my birth—tesseracted buildings back before their blueprints were drawn. They flip between being and unbeing, inconsistencies as tangible as bricks. A strategic homelessness; the gratitude for a tarp when you’ve forgotten your keys. The thin thought process it takes to accept this. I have friends who still think it’s easier to live in cars and maybe they’re right, though I get lost too easily. Steeled veins in a desert night—The sun’s cold is just distance. There are no anomalies. There are freedoms I’ve passed over and distanced, maybe eternally. I like eternals. I like spans and instants in a raw way that makes my heart feel saline. I know the same things about ice I know about drought. How water is an apology that might never come.