if anything I consistently overestimate my capacity.

or I'm sorry for this, yet another delayed start.

every so often I'm able to convince myself I have it in me to say something substantive. SOMETHING SUBSTANTIVE. who's listening? who cares? I think about how much easier it seems to agree than to declare a singular opinion but there is a fetish for unique originality. this isn't the first newsletter you've read (by me or otherwise). something about the tradition of communication & correspondence & community & consonance. I am compelled to mention I am anxious this will be another failure. Another flash in the pan but I wonder how differently to approach this. I may write so much more than I planned. I may compile into sections. I may share 3 times in one week. I want this to be different. This newsletter, but also this mode of writing. I want to be a better long-form writer. I want more of my words to matter. I want more in general now. Curious, because it doesn't seem to mean much more than I get sad easier. I feel new kinds of poor & new kinds of rich. Fuller & aching in rhyming vernaculars. I want to make my most selfish desires more beneficial. I won't be giving advice the way I used to. I'm an embarrassment. I'm grateful for your willingness to read this. to remind me the void can speak back. it's all possible & all here.

I am hoping this is a way to directly document & reevaluate my loneliness. I am hoping this is a way to redirect my frustrations (internet & otherwise). maybe I am hoping for too much. maybe I'll say things I regret. maybe no one will fucking read this. sorry for you reading right now, but so few things feel real & no one seems to be able to compliment me in a language that sounds human. your loneliness is not special & thankfully neither is mine. but it doesn't something worse than bore me. more on that later. I don't want to use this as a platform to keep up with the news or current events, though I am not an un-reactionary writer, the present is not a rich as it appears. It's a symptomatically destitute rendering of the past's worst efforts & the futures most desperate seeds. the present bore me. no more on that.

if we are all slouching toward the arbitrary, I want to linger along the gossamer threads that trace what we call time. I want to paint the walls of a lovers mouth in spit. I want more of their blood spilled. I want more hands-on my body. this won't help most of that but I want to name what I want here. the urgency of saying what I want is finally getting old. new things manifest & old hurts persist. reaching new limits & turning down new spirals. I want it all to mean a single thing to me. I know how much this all means for you. well not me presently, but ALL THIS, generally & you, unspecifically.