I think maybe what I need most is more poetry. Tensions rise with blood pressure, money is outsized, our humanity is diminished, but it’s my own fault; what fault may be, what is freedom and responsibility, is impossible to say, without memory, that fourth dimension, not past as most presume, as much present and certainly future, memory intimate with time, essential like time, more so than the past I think, memory, more so.

So poetry it is, my anti-coagulant, my garlic, mystery and magic, propelling me into day that I wish was dawn or dusk at any moment, my own world, but the one I have and must live in, my memory, my own fault tension, my physical life more dependent now, on poetry, than not eating junk food, or newspapers