dog

Language, if it returns, is the only thing that I have left. It is it is it is it is it is it is it is it is it is it is it is it is it is it sititisitistisitsitisitisitistitittittiitititisisitsissssssss

Don’t know if it will come back. I feel like a dog. I feel like a dog. I feel like an animal. I feel like a dog. I am a dog. I am a dog. I am an animal. Animals can speak. Dogs who can see. Angels and Devils who cannot think. Thought and thought and thought and thought and it just feels like I am buried under a mountain and I cannot breathe and I cannot see and I cannot think and I cannot sense and I

The death of agency and the birth of flesh and the reprobate tongue and its lascivious caress. I don’t want it I dont want it I dont want it I dont want it I dont want it.

What do I do?

What do I do?

Why must I feel like a dog buried under a mountain? There is dirt in my lungs and color is strained and metaphors are gone and language is flat.

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Is anything going to stick?

She looked at my hands. There was understanding. There was a recurring pattern.

My brain is a rock, and I am a dog.

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