i want to visit islands. different bodies of water. i want retreat. i want white tunics and bare feet. i want forests. i want to stomp through sludge and have mud cake between the laces of my boots. i want desert. i want to be be covered in a layer of red dust. canyons and cacti and boulders and lizards and buzzards. i have a truck. i keep pushing away friends. my imagination is my cocoon.

mom says, "Dad and I didn't drink for two days and only ate veggies... but tonight your dad has already had a beer and a glass of vino and is making lamb."

i want to learn how to make a good soup, a good stew. i have all this time and i should do the things that i want to do.

the raven stops at my window and stares. he eats his worm in front of me and i realize that you're never really alone, that it's never truly quiet.