If you capitalize on the morning’s coffee buzz, you just might find yourself scattered in mind and on the table before you. Who said clutter is a sign of intelligence? Who’s internet algorithm tells you exactly what you need to read; all the reason available to justify your vices. Your vices aren’t so bad. After all the occasional cigarette after a blow joy (job) is a sign of functionality. Your therapist told you how we all need performance enhancing drugs to survive living under the conditions of late-late stage capitalism, and you wonder if hers is monetizing traumas just as much as money and pills are yours. You’re reading Franz Kafka’s The Trial and connect the introduction’s “there may be nothing novel and illuminating to be said of Kafka’s fable” with Laura Broadbent’s In on the Great Joke where Lao Tzu recognizes the futility of language and words to ascertain the Way (there is no certainty) while relying on language and words to make way for the Way regardless. You read your archive and there was a note in there from a professor who asked what YOU THINK about something as you had started a sentence and gave up on it. Moving forward you won’t give up on your own thinking because there is no thinking to own. There’s some language and words to describe your thinking, and you’re not particularly overjoyed (overblown) at the possibility. You read someone whose dick was once inside you’s academic paper from 2008 and can’t put a finger on the Thing. You don’t even know enough to feel IT anymore. What you do know is reading someone whose dick was once inside you’s academic paper from 2008 reads as though he knows a Thing or two about Things. In fact you might say that endeavoring to read highlighted the limits of yourself and the very Thing in front of you, and then realized, again factually, that the point is generally always about an impact between you and whatever Thing you may encounter or not. Sharon Thesen write’s in The New Long Poem Anthology, to which she compiled and edited, a line about the long poem as “a way of handling the distrust of the ‘poetic’ association with the lyric voice, seen as falseness, a colonizing wish overlaid upon the real” which I take to mean is about the long poem’s enduring aesthetic form directed at a Thing that is indeed inexhaustible and only limited by the language and words we have available to describe IT. You also wrote an academic paper about what happens after you’ve killed your lyric I on paper yet continue to persist as though continuing to live was a fucking failure and a bullshit load of hypocrisy. Writing a self-annihilating poetry book is not at all akin to jumping off a bridge and surviving, nor is being canceled a form of imprisonment, nor is reading and writing what constitutes black study (Fred Moten). Every Thing is compromised by language. It’s often why you, like Carl Jung (Jump), will stay inside so as to not jeopardize your interiority unshaped by the tyranny of language and words. Hold the censors! You might actually be anti-social out of necessity! A delicious sensation, a sweet spot for sociability, that is down for sacrifice only on and with Things and People who get IT. You wonder about those who have written about the limitations of language and words to convey the Way, the Thing, and Kafka’s fables, if navigating past the first sentence, the first word really, is also really an admission of ready-made failure, to keep on writing regardless with these tools of limitation is not an act of perseverance (you just finished reading Adam Phillip’s On Giving Up and know better now), but to do with what is available, however limited, that is turbulently abundant if you so choose to believe in that today.