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tamura: i mean, this month, i'm a vegetarian.

next year, who knows? i could be flying to the moon.

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there are dark things out there. there are. i hear about them, i see them, and they feel like flakes of rust on my tongue, biting but nothing lasting. just the remnant of what was something else. there are dark things.

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but there is a road, and it is that time just before dawn, that time when you're camping alone in a place with cold springs and late summers, and the trees rise up and meet above you.

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you're wrapped in a blanket, listening to the hush that feels like a palm against the small of your back, before the birds begin to sing. your nose is cold, and you know that the air smells this way for a reason, the same reason your dog buries her nose in the hollow of your neck where the fog of your sweat is lifting.

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this always makes the dark seem so small, when the very air you breathe is a trail. the rest is just grit dissolving in your mouth.