In pain again, but a curious thing revealed itself. I don’t care, the sensation, not even agonising disruption, raises itself above my animus. I can be struck down and I’ll pass a note to the coroner—tell them that my art still lives.

I find flow encompasses me, the awareness is shielded like a temporal wake. The pulsing does not subside, but I carry on like never before. I’m falling apart. Am I? Of course I am, I’m split to my atoms, on several fronts at once.

Death and mystery bind together, like a twisting vine. If I deserve it, then there is meaning to be found. A chorus of strangled cats ring out, beckoning a call. One step forwards, two in retreat. I watch another video. There’s another email.

Shot down, once I’d just left the ground. Landing gear, able for timeless tension. I’ve listened to the President, owing to its Lightbody. Seems I need the spirit of those around me, to light the fuse.

I’ve lingered on this draft, I guess there’s too much afoot. Time has come to for project whitelight, the spectrum understood. Got a new heater installed, but the walls dampen spirits. Blue light passes the time, as long as I’m past forgiving.

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