This is a selection that I started yesterday that I’m considering using as the first section of my project. It’s fairly unedited. But here’s a glimpse…

It doesn’t matter where I am. At Cowen Park, under a big leaf maple I contemplate my subconscious mind—my inner voice. The late-afternoon sun—halfway through its three month cycle, which won’t be showing its mug for another nine—warms my forearms through a network of leaves and twigging branches. Though the ground is perpetually damp; it’s too saturated to go for three mere months, for ninety measly days, for over two thousand speeding hours, without rain. My ass is damp. But it will be damp biking back uphill regardless. My eyes close. The distant sunlight spit shines my eyelids pink. What is this voice? Where is it coming from? In words, I wonder what that ability is, how its changed, how so much of it is the essence of my identity. It’s the real me. The full me. The essence which is ever starting, pausing, moving and morphing.

It doesn’t matter where I am. The cotton sheets, thinly striped in blue and white, are cold on my bare skin. I writhe around under the hulking brown comforter building ramparts on each side of my body. With my feet I fold the bottom of the blanket into a pocket, dig in deep with legs fortifying the pocket into a deep catacomb, and locking in the frozen feet—the ritual now complete. I close my eyes. Every night another hour, or will it be two, three? of lying here paralyzed awake. Sleepless despite weariness. Isolated in the binding blanket, in a pitch black bedroom, am I anything else but voice? Is the voice embodied, does take physical form? Here in the darkness it’s a voice producing no sound.