It is caught, attention, between love and ought. And out of the attended, the Greek at desk, the paper beneath fingers, a rising kind of knowledge: an environment, a multiply-inhabited dwelled in-ness. My fascination with desk detritus runs from the time I knew myself littlest into these present times. It defies curation, cultivation. Yet a natural harmony in what lays on desks winks, a message out of mess. I cannot translate it to you yet.
So maybe it is homework addles: that propagating exhaustion which propounds itself as visions of sleep, maybe, or a gaze that lingers on what would have been nothing at all before. Maybe it is just that spine, which, all day long has wicked up a body's energy, conveys the rich fats of effort to be burned off to float airy, abstract thought. Maybe it's the other way around, my mind is a derrick, drawing deep, nodding 'til I nod off.
But look, look at this place. Look at the terrain stamped with seeking feet. Look at a place where four men live together, grumpy and good at once. I can see strata, run my hands over ridges; they count how many, how much, in assignment and accomplishment. This geology: my home, my really home (for these so few days). I want to be loved, and I ought to love this, and more often now I do remember: I do love this. I got made to maybe get to be this way, and now I am.