mom's sick, she's knows me, she knows i'm quiet when i'm hurt. i don't mind her dying, she has lived and seen things, but she's scared and i can tell and this hurts me. she's such a strong woman, she'll probably scare death off anyway.

whatever kind of horror there was i always learnt to live in front of it and i think i got that from my mother and mostly having no choice anyway.

short segments of my past come to me as if i lived in the desert, i think of this time and all things seem to be worn down and pale, like pictures of the parts of my life that i wore out. the sky and the mountains and the dust and the people in cheap clothes all look like postcards of themselves. this could have been anyones life. the strangers in supermarkets look like dressed up dinosaurs, howling and eating stupidly, like violent jerks, so sad and beat up. there are little plants everywhere, growing out of the desert, but they all die eventually. there are coke machines and candy bar wrappers and statues about history.

i remember parts of hospital, watery colours and my body was always hot and you learn to live waiting around for someone to tell you how you can live. people i didn't even like gave me toys and came to see me, but it's always felt private, alone in the company of many. other people have nothing to do with what i remember about hospital and nothing has changed, i rememer visits from months ago, trying not to fall asleep, trying to stay quiet all day to have the energy to see somebody, being quiet, being alone around other people again. watch the light ebb and flow around, fragment itself, get smaller and eventually go out, then do it again in a few hours. get quiet because i'm hurt. don't move, don't speak, sit and watch the light go out, have ideas, but don't write them down, just have them for as long as you can.