K-naz

I still take joy in birds (words, lines, the simplicity of black ink on white) and this tells me I am not yet broken (I ordered more birdseed just before the shit went down, will I get it in time to keep their bird-bellies full, in time to keep their love?) I tell my therapist I am fine. I’m not anxious. I’ve got nothing on my mind. I skim over the surface like a stone spun out by the deft fingers of Ink on paper. But below the surface my stomach hurts (So don’t go down there) My thoughts rest one within another like an infinity of nesting dolls, there is no telling how deep down they go, how small they get, so I try to resist opening the first one, but their shells are fragile… No. I’ve got nothing in my head but drawing exercises: form, line, value (lysol wipes 72 dollars a 6 pack on amazon says my beloved asthmatic 65 year old aunt who can’t/won’t stop going to work) My therapist (via teleconference, she’s stopped seeing patients in person (I used to tease a friend about her