(Trzyma mnie świeże życie za kciuka. Czym jest orientacja w terenie ludzkim? Rich inner life. At the edge of fantasy, it is.) What if I'd undress this narrative? I look back but it's rather in front of me. Like in a mirror, I see myself doing these things, see myself being brash and loud and assertive. There is something so terrifying about choosing. I tend to attach to movement instead. What is so violent about a sense of direction? You step on grass. The water is boiling. You're so nice now, have you always been this way? Postponement and binge. Like, I just want to stand in front of you and look at you, now words, language fails us over and over again. I want to repeat myself endlessly. Reality can be so schizophrenic but it's actually real nice to see you unleashed like that. It is a cold depth of winter, I asked them to play but they didn't feel like it. What is a conversation? Is it more like a dance or playing ping pong? Pomidorowa fills my stomach with home and its midnight. My radiators are hot, my skin tightens. You told me you've got warm skin and I thought about your warm heart. (Sometimes it's just really hard not to think of yourself as a horrible person.)