︎︎︎ Roz Counelis
︎ JULY 6, 2022
Thoughts like future bright technology, like Easter lambs in January, thoughts waiting to be born. The vibration could be felt for miles, but only if you knelt down on the ground. I cannot say if I hallucinated sound. Thoughts like one vast raincloud rolling in, with its countless bulging raindrops rolling round inside, thoughts that build in mass and awesome structure before ruining our plans. I have to let it happen. I have to go inside to play alone, to pin the tail on what I cannot see. For I don’t yet have the sense of sight; the real kind that lets me see through things. But if I run a hand across the tablecloth I sense them underneath; thoughts like cryptic braille, like breadcrumbs hidden by the dead. I’m going to bed, he says; by which he means, why don’t you come to bed. He turns off all the lights and I keep reading in the dark. I say let it happen. Thoughts like steaming hot espresso shots, like movements of my wisdom teeth, thoughts that keep me up when the others go to sleep.