Nausea, typed in v2.02

I am here yet else­where. There appears to be not a soul answer­ing my quer­ies on the other end of this vir­tual post­box, which con­tin­ues to blush bright red at both their absence and my sheer temer­ity. Mean­while, I con­tinue to dwell in cir­cu­lar con­fu­sion because boun­cing plastic is prom­ising the cheer­i­est of one-minute responses and good-natured people are rais­ing money by selling roses in Cherry Hill. That con­fuses me even more, because I once knew a girl called Cherry Hill.

No, you’re not meant to under­stand. I don’t always want to be under­stood, com­pre­hen­ded or deduced. I read too many open books, and without a single excep­tion they make for the most banal, the most tedi­ous of lit­er­ary endeavours.

I strain to hear half my world sleep­ing, some half a world away or fur­ther. Breathe, breathe in, breathe out. I hope your eye­lids are flick­er­ing with only the most all-encompassing of dreams. Envel­oped. Com­pletely enveloped.